I wake to the familiar sound of my brain screaming.

  Not literally — but it’s close. That slow, dragging kind of agony, like someone’s playing a cello inside my skull with a rusted fork. My mouth is dry enough to sand wood, my thoughts are scrambled, and my memory feels like a half-erased VHS tape.

  Bits come back in flashes, jagged and unwelcome.

  The morgue.

  That door.

  The light.

  The corpse.

  I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. My heart thuds like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. My body remembers something my mind keeps trying to deny.

  Was it real?

  It felt real — every flicker, every sound, the stench of rot and ozone. But trauma has a way of rewriting the rules. And after enough sleepless nights and industrial-strength floor polish, you start to question what’s real and what’s just your brain melting under fluorescent lights.

  I stumble into the bathroom, flip on the light. The mirror doesn’t pull any punches.

  I look like something that crawled out of the morgue and forgot to go back — pale, bloodshot, with the beginnings of a bruise blooming on my collarbone. Right where it grabbed me.

  My fingers graze the skin. The spot is tender.

  Yeah. Real enough.

  I rinse my face, stare myself down for a few seconds longer than I’m comfortable with, then head into the living room.

  Evan is still on the couch, dead to the world. He’s curled on his side, arms tangled in a fleece blanket with a faded Batman logo, a half-empty bowl of cereal tucked precariously into the crook of his elbow. His shirt has ridden up, and there — nestled in a patch of proudly unkempt belly hair — is a single, soggy Lucky Charms marshmallow. He snores like a dying walrus.

  I consider waking him. I even take a step toward him. But what am I going to say? Hey man, last night a corpse sat up and tried to monologue me into the apocalypse, pass the milk?

  Yeah. No.

  I grab my keys, shove on my boots, and step outside.

  The afternoon air clings like damp cloth — heavy, humid, and unmoving. The sky is a dull, listless gray, the kind that flattens everything beneath it, draining color from the world. It’s not bright, not dark — just... blank. Like the light forgot what it was supposed to be. There’s a weird stillness to it all, like the city’s holding its breath, waiting for something to crack open.

  The parking lot is quiet, save for my rust-bitten sedan slouching in its usual spot like it’s ashamed to be seen in public.

  As I approach, something prickles at the base of my neck. A flicker in the corner of my eye.

  Movement.

  The windshield ripples, faintly — like heat waves on pavement, only it's barely fifty degrees. Then I hear it.

  Click click click.

  Like something tapping. Something small.

  I stop short.

  There’s something inside the car. Scuttling across the dashboard. My brain jumps to rat, but no — rats don’t stand upright. Rats don’t wear tiny vests.

  I move closer.

  There it is. Clear as day. Two feet tall, maybe less. Skin like gnarled wood, a head too large for its wiry frame, and a grin that could strip paint. Its eyes are black and glossy, too wet, like they’ve never blinked.

  It sees me.

  And waves.

  Another one pops up from the passenger seat, wings buzzing like dragonflies on amphetamines, a thimble jammed on its head like a helmet. The two creatures start arguing — high-pitched squeals mixed with digital screeches and what I swear sounds like backwards Latin.

  The first one slaps the steering wheel. The horn honks.

  I stumble back, heart doing Olympic flips. Fumble for my keys like they’re holy objects.

  And that’s when I hear her.

  “Should’ve known you’d be mixed up in something.”

  I turn, already wincing.

  Across the street, Mrs. Whitaker is out front in her slippers and faded housecoat, watering a cluster of wilted rose bushes like she’s punishing them. Her white hair is pulled into a bun the size of a softball, and her wire-rimmed glasses gleam with judgment. She’s been watching the whole time.

  “Good morning to you too,” I mutter, forcing a smile.

  She squints at me like she’s trying to see if I’ve grown horns. “Looks like the devil’s finally come for your soul, Mr. Malone.”

  I glance back at the car — the creatures are gone. Of course. Just an empty interior, still and silent. My reflection stares back from the glass like even it wants nothing to do with me.

  I sigh. “Guess he got lost and settled for the alternator instead.”

  Mrs. Whitaker huffs — loudly — like I’ve just farted on a Bible. She turns and retreats into her house, the screen door slamming shut with the force of divine condemnation.

  The engine refuses to start. I try once. Twice. Nothing.

  I stare at the keys in my hand like they betrayed me personally.

  I take a deep breath. Exhale.

  “Not today, Satan,” I mutter.

  I walk to the bus stop like I’m heading to my own funeral.

  The sun hangs low and bloated in the sky, casting long, jaundiced shadows across the cracked pavement. It’s that late-afternoon light that feels more like decay than warmth — the kind that makes everything look a little too still, a little too exposed. My boots scuff the sidewalk, each step dragging like I’m walking through syrup. The air tastes like rust and burnt rubber, laced with something faintly sweet and unmistakably wrong — like candy left to rot in an oil drum. It reminds me of the hospital.

  Which, unfortunately, is exactly where I’m headed.

  My brain won’t stop playing back what I saw in the car. Tiny creatures. Bark-skin. Dragonfly wings. Vests and thimbles and that smug, evil little grin. One of them flipped me off.

  I shake my head like it’ll rattle the memory loose.

  Maybe it was the weed. Evan did say it was some new strain. Unicorn Cookies. I make a mental note to ask him if the dispensary also laced it with hallucinogens or if that’s just part of the brand now.

  Or maybe I’m just going crazy.

  I rub my eyes. I should stop drinking. I’ve been saying that for years, but maybe this is the sign I needed. Seeing pint-sized goblins joyriding my car kind of puts things into perspective.

  I reach the stop and lean against the rusted pole, ignoring the decades of grime caked into the chipped paint. It’s cold. It seeps into my bones.

  No one else is around. Just me and the wind and the faint buzzing of a busted streetlamp overhead.

  The bus rolls up five minutes later, lurching to a stop with the enthusiasm of a dying animal. The doors creak open with a hiss that sounds a little too alive.

  I step inside and instantly regret it.

  The air is thick — humid and musty, like a mouth that never closes. There’s the sour tang of unwashed clothes, stale gum, and something sharper underneath. Copper, maybe. Or ammonia. The kind of scent you only notice right before something goes horribly wrong.

  The driver doesn’t look at me. He’s staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the wheel.

  I move down the aisle.

  Only a few passengers scattered through the cabin. But none of them move. None of them look up. They just exist. Still. Quiet. Like wax figures waiting for a fire drill.

  I take a seat halfway back, across from a man who looks like he was printed slightly wrong. His face is too symmetrical, like someone hit "mirror image" one too many times. He’s reading a newspaper that’s been folded so many times the corners are translucent. The date on it is from last year.

  The lights above buzz and flicker, strobing in that irregular, maddening way that messes with your depth perception. I press my forehead to the window, hoping the cold glass will shock some sanity back into me.

  That’s when I start to notice the others.

  The man in the aisle across from me — I catch his eye for a second.

  He doesn’t blink. At all. Then, in one slow, unnatural motion, he turns to face the window beside him. But his reflection doesn’t follow. It stays facing me. Watching me.

  I look away fast, heart suddenly thudding.

  Ahead of me, a teenage girl in a hooded sweatshirt pulls her scarf tighter around her face. I catch a glimpse beneath the fabric — not skin, but something like bark. Knotted. Antlers. And then the scarf is back, and she’s just another commuter pretending not to notice the world falling apart.

  My palms are sweating.

  I close my eyes. Count backwards. Try to ground myself in reality — my boots on the floor, the sticky vinyl seat beneath me, the smell of too many lives pressed together into one space.

  And then — a voice.

  “You see them too, don’t you?”

  I jerk to the side. Someone’s sitting next to me.

  I know the seat was empty when I sat down.

  He’s older. Late fifties, maybe sixties. Dressed like a man who’s either homeless or a magician between gigs — long coat, gloves with the fingers cut off, a scarf that looks like it’s been through a war. His round glasses are slightly fogged, and his grin is... unsettling. Too toothy. Too pleased.

  “They’re getting sloppy,” he says. “You weren’t supposed to notice yet.”

  I swallow hard. “Who?”

  “The ones between,” he whispers. “The ones who watch when the veil thins. The tiny ones are scouts. But the others — the ones hiding behind eyes and under skin? They’re collectors. And you…” He taps my chest gently with a gloved finger. “You’ve been marked.”

  I tense. “Do I know you?”

  He chuckles. “Oh, you will. Everyone knows the keyholder, Jack.”

  My throat tightens.

  “I never told you my name.”

  “You didn’t have to.” He stands suddenly, fluid and silent.

  The bus jerks. The lights go out.

  Pitch black.

  For two full seconds, everything is nothing.

  Then they flicker back on.

  The seat beside me is empty. No trace. No coat. No smell. Just heat fading from the vinyl.

  The man across from me is still reading his year-old newspaper. The girl in the hoodie is scrolling her phone.

  I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until it comes out in a shudder.

  The seat beside me is empty. The air where that man had been still carries a faint, unnatural warmth — like the aftertaste of a nightmare. My chest is tight. My hands are damp. I grip the rail in front of me like it’s the only real thing left in this glitching simulation I seem to be trapped in.

  Get a grip, Malone.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  You’re not insane. You’re just... overstimulated. Sleep-deprived. High, maybe.

  That last part lights a fuse in my brain. I yank my phone out of my pocket with shaking fingers and jab out a message to Evan:

  ME:

  What the fuck was in that weed last night?!

  Three dots appear almost instantly. Then his reply comes through:

  EVAN:

  Um. Weed? With weed in it?

  EVAN:

  Wait, are you seeing unicorns again? Bro, you gotta stop chasing the marshmallow dragon.

  I groan and shove the phone back in my pocket.

  It’s not the weed. It’s me.

  Or it’s something worse.

  The hospital’s coming up fast — a looming smear of steel and glass through the filmy window. I spot the back lot entrance maybe two blocks ahead and make a snap decision.

  I stand up so fast the world tilts.

  “Stop the bus!” I shout, stumbling down the aisle.

  The driver doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps driving.

  “Hey! Stop the damn—!”

  The brakes squeal. The doors hiss open halfway through the block.

  I don’t wait for a formal goodbye. I stumble off like I’ve just escaped a crime scene, the bus hissing behind me as it lurches back into traffic.

  The pavement under my boots feels weirdly soft, like the whole world’s made of something slightly too forgiving. I walk fast. Don’t look back.

  My brain’s on fire.

  I can’t be losing it. But what else explains this? Creatures in my car. People with antlers. A man who knew my name and disappeared into thin air. I feel like I’ve stepped into a dream I wasn’t invited to — and reality's not answering my texts.

  My phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen.

  EVAN:

  Did the Lucky Charms marshmallow finally take control? I told you it had plans.

  Despite everything, I huff out a half-laugh. Evan’s probably still in his pajamas, surrounded by comic books and existential snacks.

  Meanwhile, I’m being stalked by things that shouldn’t exist.

  The hospital looms closer with every step — crooked brick meeting polished glass in a Frankenstein patchwork of past and present. The building juts from the cityscape like something implanted, not built. It doesn’t fit. It never has.

  And today, it feels like it’s watching me.

  I take one last breath before I reach the entrance. It shudders out of me like steam from a pressure valve.

  The doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and the sterile glow of St. Vincent’s bleeds out onto the sidewalk, swallowing me whole.

  Inside, the hospital is its usual mess of movement and muttered urgency. The floor tiles are scuffed, the air smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee, and nurses drift past in tired packs, murmuring about charts and overdue labs. It's loud, but not chaotic. Just... indifferent. Like the building itself doesn’t care if you live or die, so long as you sign in first.

  Carl’s at his usual post near the security desk, sipping coffee from his ancient thermos that’s probably older than most of the staff.

  He sees me coming and raises a bushy eyebrow. “Well, well. If it isn’t Sleepy Hollow. You look like death in discount scrubs.”

  Normally, I’d fire back something about his mustache being a federally listed cryptid, but not today. Not after the bus. Not after the car. Not after last night.

  I just nod, forcing a thin smile as I pass. “Long night.”

  “Must’ve been a real party,” he calls after me. “Next time, invite your face to the rest of you!”

  I wave a hand over my shoulder without turning.

  And then I see him.

  Dr. Thorn, standing across the atrium like some kind of looming shadow in an expensive coat. He’s speaking to someone — a nurse maybe — but the second his eyes find me, he stops mid-sentence.

  Something about that look makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  He raises a hand. “Jack!”

  Nope.

  Not today.

  I pivot hard and duck into the hallway that leads to the custodial locker room. The fluorescent lights above flicker as I pass beneath them — one buzzes angrily, like it’s considering burning out just for spite.

  I push through the swinging door into the locker room and let it close behind me.

  Silence.

  I walk to my locker like I’m on autopilot, muscles tight, stomach flipping.

  I stop in front of it and just… rest my forehead against the cold metal.

  Everything feels heavier today.

  I don’t know if I’m losing my mind or if something’s after it. Either way, I’m not ready to talk about it. Especially not with Thorn. Especially not in this place.

  I straighten, pop the latch, and open the door.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Hanging from a hook inside my locker is a key.

  Not one of the plastic, labeled ones we use for storerooms or biohazard cabinets. No, this is something else entirely — old, ornate, wrought iron maybe. The kind of key you’d expect to find in a cursed mansion or behind the tongue of a skeleton in a crypt.

  It hangs there like it’s always belonged.

  Silent.

  Waiting.

  I stare at it, frozen.

  Because I know — somehow — that this wasn’t here yesterday.

  And it sure as hell doesn’t belong in a hospital.

  The key doesn’t move or sway. It just hangs there from the hook inside my locker like it’s always been there—silent, ancient, deliberate. My stomach twists. Every instinct I have is screaming for me to shut the door, to pretend I never saw it. And for once, I listen. I slam the locker shut with a metallic clang that echoes too loudly in the quiet room, the sound sharp and final, like a warning.

  I lean against the locker and try to talk myself down, grounding myself in the smell of bleach and cheap soap. Maybe it’s just a prank. Some weird antique one of the other guys found and thought would be funny to hang in my locker. Or maybe I’m still seeing things—leftover ghosts from whatever was in the air last night. My brain, still fogged from the lack of sleep and too much reality-bending horror, doesn’t seem interested in separating delusion from fact. I try to laugh, but it comes out thin and bitter. “Hell of a way to start a shift,” I mutter under my breath.

  The locker room door creaks open and in walks Hank, with the timing of a sitcom entrance and the smell of floor wax already trailing behind him. He’s dressed head to toe in worn-out coveralls, work boots, and the same faded St. Vincent’s name badge he’s had since the Bush administration. “Talking to yourself again, Malone?” he grunts, giving me a side-eye as he tosses an old rag over one shoulder.

  “Only way to get good answers anymore,” I say, trying to play it cool.

  Hank stops in front of his locker and turns to really look at me. “You look like somebody walked across your grave. Twice.”

  “Didn’t sleep much,” I answer, avoiding his gaze.

  “Uh-huh.” He narrows his eyes and studies me with that veteran custodian squint, like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m on drugs or just freshly traumatized. “You got that look. Like you saw a ghost or your ex in a better relationship.”

  “I’ll manage,” I say, forcing a smile I don’t feel.

  Hank lets out a long breath, clearly not buying it, but not interested in dragging it out either. “Alright, keep it together. Last thing I need is another meltdown in the janitor’s closet. Kenny passed out from too many Red Bulls and I had to drag his twitching ass away from the biohazard bin.” He claps me once on the shoulder—solid, grounding—and then turns toward the door. “Third-floor ICU needs mopping. Smells like something died in the air ducts. Again.”

  I watch him leave, his boots thudding in rhythm until the door swings closed behind him. The silence that follows feels heavier now, as if the air’s thickened. My gaze drifts back to the locker. There’s a pull I can’t shake, like a thread wrapping around my ribs, gently tugging me forward.

  Slowly, I open the locker again. The key is still there, unchanged and yet somehow more vivid. In the muted fluorescent light, I notice something I didn’t see before—a gemstone set into the top of the key. Deep emerald green, faintly glowing from within like it holds a captive spark. The metal surrounding it is dark, almost black, and etched with strange markings that I don’t recognize but feel eerily familiar.

  I stare, rooted in place, as something begins to stir under my skin—a low, humming pressure that vibrates through my bones. It’s not painful. It’s... intimate. Like the key is aware of me. Like it’s been waiting. Without meaning to, I reach out and curl my fingers around it.

  The moment I touch the key, the temperature seems to shift. A static pulse runs up my arm and into my chest, and my breath catches like I’ve stepped into a storm. There’s a flicker behind my eyes, almost a vision, but it’s gone before I can focus. The air smells faintly of ozone and something older—woodsmoke, maybe, or moss after rain. I stand there for a moment, letting the feeling settle, then slip the key into my pocket and shut the locker door.

  The key rides heavy in my pocket—not in weight, but in presence. It’s like a small sun pressed against my leg, radiating something I can’t explain. I can’t stop thinking about it. Every step I take, I feel a faint thrum, a pulse that doesn’t quite sync with my heartbeat but seems to demand I acknowledge it. I try to ignore it as I grab my cleaning cart from the supply room and head toward the ICU, but it’s like trying to forget a splinter you can’t see. My knuckles go white around the mop handle as I push forward, forcing normalcy into my posture like it might ward off whatever’s unraveling behind my eyes.

  The ICU, usually filled with the dull rhythm of beeping monitors, quiet murmurs, and the occasional shuffling of nurses’ shoes, feels off. The fluorescent lighting overhead is too bright, bleaching the color from everything, and the silence isn’t peace—it’s absence. A vacuum. A nurse flips through a clipboard at the station with robotic disinterest, eyes half-lidded, like her spirit left twenty minutes ago and her body’s still playing catch-up. Somewhere behind a curtain, a heart monitor beeps in slow, steady tones, but no one moves. No footsteps. No voices. Just the sense that the air is holding something in its breath.

  I start sweeping near the nurse’s desk, my movements slow, mechanical, more about grounding myself than actual cleanliness. My eyes catch on the wall clock above. It ticks steadily, predictably, then—without warning—it ticks backwards. Once. Then again. The minute hand stutters in place, twitching like it’s struggling to decide what direction time should flow. I blink hard, squint, and it corrects itself. Forward. Like nothing happened.

  I pause for a second, staring, then shake it off. Stress. Sleep deprivation. Maybe even a leftover buzz from last night’s weed. Hell, maybe Evan wasn’t kidding about cursed marshmallows. I roll the cart down the hall, heading toward the elevators, trying to shove the incident into the drawer in my brain labeled "Ignore for Now." But the hallway doesn’t cooperate. It seems longer than usual, stretching out like a tunnel. Each step echoes louder than it should, and the lights above buzz and flicker in sequence as I move beneath them, like some invisible force is tracking my progress.

  And then I hear it.

  A whisper, too faint to catch all the words, but unmistakable in intent. It slithers through the ventilation shaft above, a breath-shaped sound carried on electric air. I freeze, grip tightening on the mop handle as the sound brushes my ear like a secret meant for someone else. “He has it…” the voice hisses, not quite a voice, not quite a sound at all.

  I spin, but the hallway is empty. No footsteps behind me. No doors closing. Just the sterile hum of electricity and the distant hum of machinery I’m suddenly very aware I don’t understand. My chest tightens with a new wave of paranoia. I don’t know what’s worse—the idea that someone’s playing a sick joke, or that no one is.

  I retreat into the break room. The light buzzes overhead with a low, angry pitch, the kind of noise you don’t notice until your brain starts begging for silence. I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting the chill of the metal push against my back like an anchor. My hand moves instinctively to my pocket. I pull out the key.

  It’s still as alien and wrong as the moment I first saw it. The old iron is etched with markings I don’t recognize but feel like they’re meant for me. The emerald in its center pulses again, faint but steady, as if it’s alive. The air around me thickens, the pressure shifting like a barometer in freefall. Something unseen leans into the room, brushing against the skin of reality.

  I lift my eyes and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sink. For a second, it ripples—not my movement, but something else, like heatwaves across water. Behind me, just out of reach, a tall, hazy shape appears in the glass, blurred and formless, but distinctly watching. It vanishes the moment I turn, leaving only empty tile and fluorescent light.

  The room is silent except for my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I shove the key back into my pocket and step away from the sink, refusing to look at the mirror again. My head is spinning. The hospital feels wrong. The key feels wrong. And worst of all, none of this feels like a dream.

  I spend the next hour pretending I have control over anything.

  I mop floors that don’t need mopping, push trash bins from one end of a hallway to the other, and scrub a water stain in the staff bathroom that looks suspiciously like a skull when I’m not blinking. The hospital keeps moving around me—doctors gliding through sterile corridors, nurses murmuring in low tones—but I can’t help feeling like they’re just wind-up toys playing out their loops. Their eyes pass over me like I’m not really there. Like I’ve already become part of the scenery.

  Twice, I catch myself staring at a supply closet door like I expect it to open by itself.

  Once, it almost does.

  The key’s weight in my pocket never lets me forget it’s there. Every time I round a corner, I think I hear footsteps behind me. Every time I glance into a darkened room, I swear something moves just out of sight.

  By the time my second break rolls around, my nerves are frayed, and my legs feel like they’re walking me instead of the other way around.

  That’s when it hits me.

  The door.

  Not the locker door. Not the break room. The door in the morgue. The one I saw right before the corpse sat up and screamed prophecy at me. The one with the light behind it. The one I never opened.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about it. Not after the shit show that followed. But the thought creeps in and anchors itself behind my eyes, growing like mold. The memory is clear—too clear. Colors dancing through the frosted glass. That pull in my gut. The whisper in my ear that didn’t come from this side of the world.

  My feet start moving before I can talk myself out of it.

  The old wing looks just like it did yesterday—dusty, half-gutted, and forgotten. The temporary construction barriers still hang limp in the doorway, the plastic sheeting whispering faintly as I pass through. But something about it feels different now. Not in the layout. Not in the lighting. The difference is in the air. Thicker. Charged. Like the space itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to cross some invisible threshold I won’t come back from.

  The fluorescent lights hum with a low, buzzing whine, more aggressive than I remember. The hall is empty, but every step I take feels watched, like the walls have grown eyes. My cleaning cart is long gone. No reason for it here anymore. Just me, and the sound of my footsteps, and that familiar pressure building behind my ribs.

  I make my way down the corridor, the weight of the key in my pocket guiding me like a magnet dragging through iron filings. Each step brings me closer to the door at the far end. The morgue. My mouth goes dry.

  I stop just outside it, staring at the tarnished brass handle. The memory of last night crashes over me—the corpse sitting up, its skin splitting as it moved, that voice like sand and fire announcing some nightmare future. My hand hovers over the doorknob. Part of me wants to run. To chalk it all up to a sleep-deprived hallucination and get the hell out of this wing and never come back.

  But I don’t run.

  I push the door open.

  The morgue is just as I left it. Cold. Dusty. Quiet. The scent of mildew and disinfectant lingers in the air, mingled with something older, more organic. Nothing is out of place. The drawers are all closed. No blood. No corpse. No sign of the struggle, or the voice that tore through my brain and left claw marks in my memory.

  I step inside, and the temperature drops further. Not the kind of cold you feel on your skin—the kind that sinks into your bones. The lights above flicker but hold, casting everything in a sterile, almost blue pallor.

  Then I see it.

  The old door.

  Still tucked into the far wall like a wound the room forgot how to close. The stained-glass window in the center pulses with shifting light—vibrant green, molten gold, deep violet. It’s brighter than it was yesterday. Brighter, and... aware. Like it knows I’ve returned.

  The hum I felt before grows stronger, vibrating through the soles of my boots and into my chest. My hand moves on instinct, reaching into my pocket. The key is warm now. It pulses against my palm in time with the glow from the door, like the two are speaking some silent language only they understand.

  I pull it out.

  The emerald at the head of the key glows steadily now—no flicker, no fade. It’s alive. Reacting. Calling. The vibrations in my hand pulse faster as I approach the door, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m sliding the key into the lock.

  It fits perfectly.

  Of course it does.

  There’s a low click, like bone snapping gently into place, and then the door groans open, inch by inch, without me even pushing. Light pours out—blinding, wild, not white but shifting through colors I don’t have names for. I shield my eyes, squinting through the blaze. It’s like looking through the cracks of a kaleidoscope someone’s set on fire.

  As my vision adjusts, the space beyond begins to take shape. Or maybe unshape is the better word. The floor just past the threshold drops away, and in its place is a massive, swirling vortex carved into nothingness. A black hole—but not empty. It's alive with motion, spiraling in every direction at once, filled with dancing lights, stars, shadows, color, and something else. Something deep.

  I take a step closer, pulled forward like gravity itself has eyes on me. My mouth goes dry. My heart slams against my ribs. It’s beautiful. Terrifying. Hypnotic. Like staring into the eye of the universe mid-blink.

  And then I hear it.

  Click. Skitter. Snort.

  I turn around slowly, and there they are.

  Two of the tiny creatures from the car—sprites, goblins, gremlins, whatever-the-hell-they-are. One is standing on the edge of a body drawer, arms crossed, wearing what looks like a vest made from a shredded hospital ID badge. The other has a rubber glove twisted into a makeshift hat, and he’s chewing on the end of a thermometer like a cigar.

  “Well, well, well,” the glove-hatted one says, voice high and scratchy like a busted kazoo. “Look who finally figured out how to use a door. Took you long enough, Two-Legs.”

  “Ten bucks says he screams like a little girl on the way down,” the other snorts, elbowing his friend and nearly falling off the drawer.

  I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t get the chance.

  They move together, too fast to stop.

  Four tiny hands shove me hard in the chest. I stumble forward with a yell—arms flailing, balance gone—and fall through the threshold.

  The vortex swallows me whole.