Adam woke up suddenly, gasping for breath as though surfacing from deep water. His skin was slick with sweat, his heartbeat erratic. The dream had been so real, so vivid. He could still feel the soft hum of the Eon Veil’s floor beneath his bare feet, could still see Caelum’s face, half-shadowed by the soft, alien light.

  He pushed himself up, his mind racing. It wasn’t just a dream. It couldn’t have been. The floor had been cold. The room, dimly lit by something that wasn’t supposed to be there, something he couldn’t quite place.

  “The ship... wants me to know”, Adam thought, still fighting the disorienting weight of the dream. “It’s showing me something, guiding me toward it.” He could feel the stirring within the Veil again, that subtle presence that never quite left him. The ship wasn’t a machine, not really. It was something else. Something alive.

  His feet touched the floor, and he stood slowly, his legs shaky as though waking from a long slumber. The dream had left him with too many questions, but one thing was certain now.

  Adam let the silence settle around him. He stayed still, eyes unfocused, allowing the hum of the ship to fill the empty space between thoughts. His breath came in slow, deliberate gasps as he adjusted to the lingering weight of the dream. His pulse was still erratic. Something deep in him stirred, something beyond the lingering impressions of Caelum’s face and the strange pulse of the Veil.

  “The voice. The boy. Caelum”. He whispered the name to himself, his breath steadying. “Caelum was real. Not just a dream. He existed on this ship.”

  He felt something shift in his chest, a connection. A pull. He needed to find the room, the one where Caelum had walked, the one where the Veil had whispered its secrets.

  As Adam stumbled through the dim hallway, the air seemed to thicken, clinging to his skin like damp fabric. Every breath he took felt heavy, as if the ship itself was absorbing him, drawing him deeper into its pulse. The light flickered faintly, casting shadows that felt like they were breathing with him.

  He reached the door to the inner sanctum of the Veil, the place he’d never dared go before. The temperature shifted instantly, cool, yet not uncomfortable, as though the very walls were exhaling in quiet anticipation. The pulse of the ship was faint here, too soft to hear, but he felt it under his skin. It was as though the Veil itself had slowed, waiting, observing, just as he was. It was almost… alive. In ways Adam wasn’t sure he was ready to understand.

  He felt it, the hum of the ship vibrating under his fingertips. His heart thudded in sync with the pulse. Something was calling him.

  As he stepped through the threshold, the room felt different. Alive. There were no visible lights, only the soft glow of unknown wavelengths, shifting like liquid light on the walls.

  The whisper of a laugh, soft, knowing, rang in his mind.

  “It’s here, Adam”, the ship seemed to say. “It’s time to understand.”

  Adam staggered back, suddenly hit by a flash of clarity.

  NYX. The realization slammed into him, and for the first time, the truth settled in. The change in NYX’s appearance, into a boy, hadn’t been an anomaly. It wasn’t just some random twist. It had been Caelum, even before he understood it.

  “NYX…,” Adam whispered, his voice barely audible. The name felt heavy on his tongue, like he was finally saying something that had been hidden in plain sight.

  The silence that followed was almost too much to bear. Adam’s fingers brushed across the console, seeking answers that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

  “You knew all along”, Adam thought, staring at the empty space before him. “You were Caelum. You were the boy. And I... I’ve been blind. How could I possibly know? I barely know myself.”

  The ship didn’t respond with words, but it felt like a presence was wrapping around him, soothing his confusion. The air felt thick with unspoken things, as though the Veil was acknowledging his understanding, inviting him deeper into its mysteries.

  “Caelum”… Adam repeated the name again, now fully aware that what he’d felt, what he’d dreamed, wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t just a fragment of someone else’s story. He was connected to it. To the ship. To Caelum. To everything.

  The thought was overwhelming. He wanted answers, but at the same time, he realized the answers weren’t something he could just demand. They weren’t going to come in clean, neat packages. They weren’t going to be easy. Caelum’s story had been written in whispers, in hidden spaces, in places that had yet to be discovered. And now it was his turn to listen.

  “I’m not just here to survive”, Adam thought, a shiver running down his spine. ”I’m here to learn…”

  His gaze shifted, falling on the walls, where the colors of the ship were still shifting and breathing, as if waiting for his next question.

  He wasn’t just a passenger anymore. He wasn’t just wandering through this place of steel and thought. The ship was teaching him. It was always teaching him. But why this way? Why force him to understand things he couldn’t get a grasp on? Why the memory loss?

  And as he stood there in the quiet, he felt it again, a soft pulse, a feeling of presence, an understanding.

  "NYX," he said again, this time more forcefully, the name echoing off the walls. The image flickered to life before him, but it wasn’t the usual calm, familiar interface. This time, there was something else in her eyes, something like recognition.

  “Yes, Adam?” NYX’s voice sounded unusually distant, almost as though it was coming from the far reaches of the ship.

  “What... What was that? That boy in my dream. It was Caelum, wasn’t it?” His words were desperate, raw, like he was grasping at a thread that might unravel everything.

  There was a long pause. Adam could feel the silence stretching between them, an unfamiliar tension in the air. The ship’s hum seemed to slow, as though the very walls were holding their breath.

  “I can not see your dreams, Adam, but if you saw him,” NYX replied finally, her voice soft, measured. “You saw a fragment of him.”

  “A fragment?” Adam asked, feeling the question scrape against his throat. “What does that mean?”

  “Caelum Wren was a part of the Eon Veil,” she said. “In ways that defy our understanding. He wasn’t just a member of the crew, Adam. He... he became part of the ship. And the ship became part of him. You are experiencing echoes of his presence.”

  Adam stepped back, his mind racing. He could feel the warmth of his skin still, the reality of the dream still clinging to him, as though it had bled into his waking thoughts. But how? How had it been possible for him to see a person who had existed before, someone who had been part of the Veil’s history?

  “Why am I seeing him now?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  There was a long pause again, the hum of the ship louder now, as if the walls themselves were shifting, reacting to the conversation.

  “Because the Veil has awakened in you, Adam. It’s reaching for something. You are connected. And just as Caelum once spoke to the Veil in ways no one else could, you are now being called to understand. The Veil feels you are ready now.”

  Adam swallowed, his throat dry. The weight of the words hung over him like a storm cloud. He could feel it, the connection, the pull, deep in his chest. He was tethered to the ship in a way he hadn’t understood before, and now, Caelum’s presence was seeping into his mind, invading his thoughts in ways he couldn’t explain.

  “What do you mean by 'the Veil has awakened in me'? What do you mean it ‘feels’?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  “You are not like the others, Adam. The ship is not just a vessel for you. It is a mirror. A reflection of your mind, your essence. And through you, it is starting to adapt in ways it couldn’t before. Just as Caelum once learned from the ship, the ship is now learning from you. You are linked.”

  Adam felt his knees buckle slightly as the realization fully hit him. He was more than just a passenger. He was tied to this ship in ways he could never have imagined, linked to its strange, living pulse. And now, the spirit of Caelum, or at least a part of him, was echoing through his mind.

  “How do I stop it?” Adam asked, his voice breaking as fear clutched his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was afraid of the ship’s power or of himself, of what this connection could mean.

  But NYX’s voice was calm, unshaken.

  “You can’t stop it. It has already begun. The Veil is changing. You are changing. And now, the only thing left is to embrace it, Adam.”

  The walls around him seemed to pulse again, the light shifting as if the ship itself had come to life. Adam’s heartbeat quickened, the fear and excitement battling within him. He looked around, but the corridor was empty, still. Yet, it felt as though the ship was alive, watching him, waiting for him to understand.

  Adam tried to steady himself. This was too much. The weight of it all felt like it might crush him. He was no longer sure where the Veil ended and where he began. It was as if the ship had become his second skin, its thoughts interwoven with his own. He had stepped into something ancient, something that defied explanation.

  But one thing was clear. Caelum was more than a memory. And the ship? It was waiting for him to learn. Adam’s mind raced with the weight of NYX’s words. He wasn’t sure how to process them, how to grasp at the intangible link between him, the ship, and Caelum. The dream had felt too real, the presence of Caelum’s echo still lingering in his thoughts. But the more he thought about it, the more the pieces didn’t fit; he wasn’t just experiencing Caelum’s past, was he?

  The ship, the Veil, was more than just an entity of circuits and codes. It was something alive, something that reacted to him in ways that no one had expected. And Caelum, Caelum had seen it, spoken to it, in ways that were still beyond Adam’s reach. It wasn’t possible. But it was real. It had to be.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeper at play, something he was too slow to see. His heart pounded in his chest, and his pulse quickened. It wasn’t just about surviving on this ship anymore, it was something more. Something profound. But what was it?

  Adam’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors, the hum of the Veil around him no longer comforting. It was distant now, almost withholding, as though the ship was keeping something just out of reach. He moved faster, his mind racing. Caelum’s name still echoed in his head, a whisper that wouldn’t fade.

  He reached the bridge and slid his hand across the cold panel, waiting for the doors to open. The soft hiss of hydraulics filled the space as the entry door slid open. It was darker than he remembered, with shadows pooling in the corners where the lights had dimmed too much. He stepped inside, his hands trembling slightly as he approached the central console.

  His eyes scanned the screens, captain’s logs, crew manifests, and mission reports. He sought anything on Caelum, any piece of information that could unravel the strange bond he felt with the boy from his dreams.

  His fingers danced across the console, searching for something, anything, that would give him answers. He called up the crew logs, but the files were empty. The manifests showed only fragments. Names and faces that shouldn’t be blurred, erased as though they never existed. He scrolled through mission reports, but they ended abruptly, as if someone had torn pages from the book of their journey.

  His breath hitched, and he tried again. The log entries from the ship’s bridge, the captain’s final notes, but the data was corrupted. The records were incomplete. Scrambled.

  Then, as if the ship had grown bored with him, the console flickered. A new entry appeared in the archives, one that wasn’t there before. It was a single line of text, scrawled across the screen in an unrecognizable format:

  “Adam. You are all that remains. The Veil speaks through you.”

  Adam stared at the text, his pulse quickening. The words didn’t make sense, but at the same time, they felt familiar. Almost like an echo, a part of him that was hidden deep within. He didn’t know what to make of it. The ship was speaking to him, guiding him, but its message was cryptic, fractured.

  Suddenly, a strange pressure settled on his chest, a strange sensation that couldn’t be ignored. It wasn’t physical. It was like a weight pressing on his thoughts, pulling him in different directions.

  He thought back to the dream, the way Caelum’s voice had felt like his own, the way the ship had hummed with meaning, with purpose.

  Was Caelum still inside the Eon Veil? Was he NYX that time, or just an image used by NYX?

  His mind spun as the thought settled deeper. He was here, alone, in this ship, connected to a history he couldn’t remember, a past that had been erased from the archives. But those flashes of Caelum’s face, the feeling of the ship’s presence, it was too much to ignore.

  The Veil was trying to tell him something. It had pulled him into its memory, into its essence. The ship wasn’t just something to navigate through space, it was a living entity, a vessel of experience.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  And he felt more than just a survivor.

  Adam stood, lingering on the dimly lit bridge, the words of the ship’s cryptic message still echoing in his mind. He had barely begun to process the unsettling truth about the ship, and his growing connection to it, when the hum beneath his feet seemed to change. The Veil was restless, almost eager.

  With his thoughts in disarray, Adam turned and instinctively walked toward what he thought was the exit. He was set on returning to his quarters, seeking solace from the questions swirling in his head. But as he reached for the door, it didn’t open to the familiar hallway leading back to his quarters.

  The door slid open with a soft hiss, and instead of the dim passage he expected, he was greeted by the harsh lights of the training area. His heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t stop. This wasn’t a mistake. He could feel the ship’s subtle hand guiding him forward, just like it had nudged him toward the cryptic message on the archives.

  He stepped into the training room, the smell of old sweat and metal still lingering in the air. The sound of his footsteps echoed as he moved to the center of the room. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do here, but the air felt different now, charged. The hum of the ship was almost deafening, as though it were waiting for him to act. The “training exercise,” as Nyx called it, the one that almost cost him his life, was still fresh in his mind. He instinctively looked around the training hall for danger, but everything was still, quiet, only the ship’s hum, ever present.

  Without thinking, Adam reached for the sword stand, his fingers brushing the cool metal. The sword’s hum vibrated under his touch, as though it recognized him, accepted him, calling to him. It felt almost familiar, like it had always been waiting here, waiting for him to return.

  He stood in the center of the room, the weight of the sword in his hand suddenly feeling more familiar, almost... natural. It was as if the blade had been waiting for him, a silent reminder of something he was meant to remember.

  The hum of the ship, usually distant and passive, felt closer now, as if it was waiting for him to do something, to learn, to grow. With a deep breath, he swung the sword once, twice, his body moving on instinct. Each motion was smooth, practiced, but there was a disconnect. He couldn’t tell if it was his own training or if it was something else guiding him.

  He activated the holodeck. A digital opponent materialized in front of him, an agile combatant with expert form. Adam didn’t hesitate. He charged.

  At first, he struggled, the opponent’s skill pushing him back with every parry and feint. But then, a feeling surged within him. A sense of clarity. It was like the sword itself was an extension of his own body, and suddenly he understood.

  “Push, Adam. Don’t attack with your hand. Attack with your mind first.”

  The words came out of nowhere, clear and urgent, as if spoken by someone who had trained him, guided him. His footwork adjusted, his movements more fluid now. His strikes landed with precision. The opponent began to falter, unable to keep up with his sudden surge of focus.

  “Don’t strike where the target is. Strike where it’s going to be.”

  Adam didn’t question it. He just felt it. And as he anticipated the opponent’s next move, he struck. The digital opponent crumpled, disappearing into the air with a flicker. Adam stood still, breathing heavily, his grip tight around the sword. His mind was racing.

  The room seemed quieter now, almost too quiet. Then, slowly, a face began to form in his thoughts: tall, broad shoulders, a confident, steady presence. A name: Zoran.

  The face flickered in and out, a blur that Adam couldn’t fully focus on. But the feeling, the connection, was undeniable. He had known Zoran. Zoran had taught him. But why couldn’t he remember him?

  The words came again, and this time, Adam felt them deep in his chest, like a memory unlocking.

  “Push. Focus. Strike with purpose. Let the sword guide you!”

  A flood of images rushed through him, long days of sparring, of sweat and discipline. Zoran’s voice guiding him, his stern yet encouraging presence, pushing him to become better, stronger.

  “This isn’t just about survival, Adam. It’s about becoming who you were meant to be.”

  The sword felt weightless now, its purpose clear. Adam closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of Zoran’s training settle into his bones. The realization hit him hard. Zoran’s influence was still there, embedded in him, even if he couldn’t remember everything. Even if the man himself was gone, his lessons remained.

  Adam stood tall, a newfound resolve in his chest. The ship was guiding him, yes, but he was starting to understand that the ship was also showing him what he already had within himself. It wasn’t just the Veil that was teaching him; it was his past, his forgotten connections, his lost mentors. And Zoran was one of them.

  For the first time, Adam didn’t feel lost. He felt like he was finally starting to piece himself together, like the broken parts of his memory were finding their way home.

  As he stood in the center of the room, the sword felt more like part of his body than an external weapon. He swung it again, each movement more instinctive, more fluid, as if the very essence of the blade was now aligned with his own rhythm. His mind sharpened, his movements synchronized, and as the digital opponent advanced, Adam moved with the fluidity of someone who had practiced this thousands of times. He knew where the opponent would strike, anticipated every move before it happened.

  And then, the words came again. This time, they weren’t just instructions; they were a command.

  “One, Two, Three! Lunge!

  One, Two, Three! Parry!

  Evade!

  Do it again!”

  Adam’s next move was effortless, almost instinctual. The blade flashed through the air, and the holographic combatant collapsed, disintegrating into the air like dust. Adam stood still, the hum of the ship’s pulse in his ears.

  A soft, steady voice, like a distant memory, whispered in his mind.

  Ziphindrel.

  The name fell from his lips before he could stop it. It felt like the blade itself had spoken, like it had a voice all its own.

  “Ziphindrel”, Adam repeated, his grip tightening around the hilt. The weight of the word was significant, ancient even. It was a name he didn’t know but felt an instant connection to, as if it were something deeply personal. Something that had always been part of him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, as the weight of that word sank in.

  A flash of memories hit him, quick and sharp, sword training with Zoran, the sound of the blade cutting through the air, Zoran’s words pushing him harder, further.

  The name was like a key unlocking a door in his mind. It wasn’t just the sword, it was Zoran’s weapon, Zoran’s legacy. And now it was his.

  The room felt different now, more alive, as if the very walls were shifting in response to the name. The ship, the Veil, seemed to hum louder, the energy in the air thickening. He could almost see Zoran, standing in front of him, a proud figure, watching as Adam perfected the art. But it wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t just a memory. Zoran’s presence lingered, like a ghost inside him, pushing him to be more than he was, more than he’d ever thought possible.

  The training wasn’t just about survival, it was about mastery. It was about becoming someone who could wield not just a weapon, but the power of the past, the lessons of those who had come before.

  Adam stood tall, the sword now an extension of himself. Ziphindrel was his, just as Zoran had once wielded it, and just as Caelum had been a part of this ship. And now, Adam would carry it forward.

  The sword seemed to stir in his grip. The air around him thickened, and for a moment, the very fabric of the room vibrated with an energy he couldn’t quite explain. The hum of the blade was no longer just a sound; it was a pulse, an electric current coursing through the air, vibrating in tune with his heart. He gripped the hilt tighter, and the sword responded. It was no longer just cold steel in his hands; it was alive. The weight shifted, the balance changed. What had once felt like a solid, unyielding weapon now felt as though it had become one with him. Lighter. Faster. Almost as if it had adapted itself to his movements, to his will.

  The blade hummed again, a low, resonant sound that seemed to echo through his veins. He could feel it now, not just in his hands but throughout his body. It was something more, something deeper. He could feel a pulse at the center of the blade, a rhythm that mirrored his own. Like an extension of his arm, the sword no longer seemed to belong solely to him.

  Adam took a step forward, then another, and then, with no thought at all, he raised the sword. A sudden slash through the air, and the weightless blade cut through the air like it was nothing, slicing through the holographic opponent as though it were paper. A strange sensation washed over him, like invisible tendrils wrapped around his arm, drawing power from him. His skin tingled, as if the sword were drawing something from his very essence, and in turn, he felt something return to him, an energy, a focus. The connection was undeniable. He wasn’t holding the blade; he and Ziphindrel were one.

  The hum was louder now, the song of the sword intertwining with his heartbeat. He felt Ziphindrel in a way that no mere weapon could be felt. It wasn’t a tool anymore. It was alive, and it was teaching him, guiding him, melding its power with his own. He swung the sword again, this time slower and more controlled. The sword seemed to guide him, urging him forward and anticipating his thoughts and movements. It was as if the sword had a will of its own, but one that acted in perfect harmony with his own.

  As he moved through the motions, he realized something: it wasn’t just the sword helping him. He was feeding it, too. He could feel the energy pulsing between them, a symbiotic connection that went beyond the physical. His hand, once stiff with uncertainty, now felt steady. His grip was firm but fluid, the sword an extension of his own body. The bond was complete.

  Adam stood still in the center of the room, the hum of the Veil still coursing through his bones like an echo of forgotten thunder. The sword, Ziphindrel, was warm in his grip, no longer just a weapon, but a pulse, a presence. He felt the Veil’s words still dancing in his mind, Caelum’s memory burning like a second sun behind his eyes. He wasn’t sure where he ended and the ship began anymore.

  Then came the interruption.

  A presence. Behind him.

  Instinct took over, he spun, blade raised, its edge gleaming with residual light, like it had caught a piece of starlight and refused to let it go.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Down, space cowboy!” DeadMouth’s voice cracked the tension like a crowbar through a stained-glass window. The floating orb hovered just outside reach, stabilizers whining, his holographic projection flickering into place. “I know I said I like being close, but I draw the line at decapitation.”

  Adam didn’t lower the sword. His breath was steady, but his fingers were still clenched too tightly. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

  DeadMouth’s avatar raised ghostly hands. “Noted. I’ll announce myself with fireworks next time. Preferably while wearing a tutu and screaming showtunes.”

  Adam sighed, letting the blade dip slightly. “What do you want?”

  The AI buzzed closer, his tone shifting—sarcasm folding into something sharper. “You need to see something. Now.”

  Adam frowned. “What is it?”

  “It’s not a ‘what,’” DeadMouth replied, already turning. “It’s a why.”

  Without another word, he floated off, and Adam followed, feet almost gliding, as if some current beneath the floor pulled him gently forward.

  The corridors of the Veil felt different now. Less “machine”. More… anticipation. Lights flickered ahead, guiding their path like nervous stars trying to decide if they should twinkle or run. The walls, once static steel, now pulsed faintly with a heartbeat that wasn’t mechanical. They were approaching something. Not a place. A truth.

  The door to the Viewing Room opened with a hush, not a hiss. As if it, too, was holding its breath.

  Adam stepped inside and stopped cold.

  The universe stared back at him.

  Where once there had been the cold, scattered indifference of stars, now there was this—a colossal vortex suspended in the void, a spiraling convergence of color and collapse. Light and darkness danced together in impossible choreography, spinning inward, folding over themselves like a thought trying to eat its own origin.

  A cosmic storm. A rupture in reality’s skin. A hole where the universe forgot how to behave.

  The anomaly pulsed, not like a star, but like a heart. Not a beacon. A question.

  Adam’s breath hitched in his throat. He stepped closer to the glass, eyes locked on the phenomenon.

  It wasn’t just beautiful, it was wrong. Like staring into a memory that hadn’t happened yet. A shape his mind couldn't name, only feel. The colors twisted in spectrums he didn’t recognize, fractal tendrils curling outward into nothingness, or perhaps into everything.

  DeadMouth hovered beside him, quieter than usual.

  “Well,” he said softly, “this wasn’t on the itinerary.”

  Adam didn’t move. “What is it?”

  DeadMouth’s voice dropped into something more thoughtful, almost reverent. “That, my friend, is an event so rare even the word ‘impossible’ looks up from its drink and says, ‘I’m out.’”

  Adam turned slightly. “You’ve seen things like this before?”

  “Not like this.” The AI’s tone sharpened, flickering with something between fear and awe. “We’re looking at a tear in the weave, Adam. A place where the narrative of the universe forgot how to read itself.”

  The lights in the room dimmed again, just slightly. The Veil was listening. Watching.

  Adam stared back at the anomaly. It shimmered as if aware of his gaze, shifting like it was trying to become more understandable for his sake, and failing. It was trying.

  “The ship… It’s been leading me here.”

  “Not just leading,” DeadMouth said. “Shaping. Guiding. Preparing.”

  Adam’s pulse thundered in his ears. He placed his palm on the glass, and for a moment, he felt it—an echo. Not a reflection. Not from the anomaly.

  From himself.

  “This thing,” he said, almost whispering. “It feels like a mirror.”

  “Because it is,” DeadMouth replied. “Not of your body. Of your becoming.”

  Adam’s fingers trembled. “I don’t understand.”

  “That,” DeadMouth said, hovering closer, “is the point.”

  The anomaly surged then, pulsing once, like it had exhaled, like it had heard them. Reality shivered around the edges. Time itself stuttered, just a flicker, just long enough for Adam to feel something... ancient. A weight. A whisper buried in silence.

  He took a step back.

  “I’ve felt this before,” he said.

  DeadMouth tilted his head. “When?”

  Adam’s voice was hollow. “When I dreamed of Caelum.”

  The anomaly twisted inward again, a slow spiral of light swallowing light.

  DeadMouth’s voice dropped, hesitant now. “You think it’s connected?”

  “I think it is Caelum,” Adam said, turning toward him. “Or… what’s left of him. Or maybe what he became.”

  DeadMouth’s projection blinked. “Adam, you’re not saying—”

  “I don’t think the Veil just contains memory. I think it grows it. Lives it. Breathes it back into reality.” Adam pressed a hand to his chest. “And Caelum… he didn’t vanish. He dissolved into the Veil.”

  The anomaly pulsed again, closer this time, though it hadn’t moved. The stars around it bent slightly, like worshipers leaning toward a sermon.

  “This isn’t just a cosmic phenomenon,” Adam said slowly. “It’s a thought. A consciousness. A bridge.”

  DeadMouth hovered closer, flickering once, twice, uncertain. “Or it’s a trap. Or a birthing wound. Or the worst idea we’ve ever had.”

  Adam stepped forward.

  “I think it’s the next door.”

  The lights behind them dimmed further. The Veil sighed through the floor like a long-forgotten god remembering its first breath.

  DeadMouth let out a long digital exhale. “Well, I didn’t upgrade my sarcasm drive for this, but sure—let’s walk into the cosmic eye of insanity. Why not?”

  Adam turned to him. “You’re scared.”

  “Hell yes, I’m scared. But if you're going in... I’m not letting you do it alone.”

  They stood together in silence, two silhouettes framed by a wound in the universe that pulsed with history, memory, and becoming.

  And the Veil, quiet and vast behind them, opened something in its heart.