I don’t belong here.

  That thought lands cold and heavy, sharp as a stone dropped in still water—no splash, no echo. Just... final.

  So I run.

  Not like a hero. Not like I’ve got a plan. Just pure, instinctive panic hauling me through the cracked teeth of an ancient archway. Some kind of hall sprawls out ahead—cathedral maybe, or throne room. Hard to tell what it to be. Whatever it was, it’s a corpse now.

  What’s left is bones.

  Ceiling’s split open like glass over a frozen lake. Light slips through in narrow shafts, dust spinning in it like suspended ash. The floor’s just as ruined—stone buckled and torn, like something massive tried to claw its way —and almost made it.

  I don’t stop. No time. My boot crosses the threshold and—

  Reality just... rips.

  No sound. No warning. No fade-to-black. One second I’m running—the next, I’m not.

  I’m gone.

  From the hall. From the moment. Like I got yanked backward through time, thought, breath—dragged out by the roots.

  Then I’m back.

  Flat on stone. Dust choking my throat. That low hum vibrating through the ground, deep and steady—like the world’s got a secret it’s whispering to itself just beneath the pitch of sanity.

  Oh, no.

  Not this again.

  Same menu. Same sterile, cream-colored text pulsing in front of me like a headache made visual. No cursor. No exit.

  Like it . Like never did.

  The chamber stretches out around me—wide, circular, half-buried in time and rot. Feels like a cathedral gutted by its own memory. No visible light source, but everything glows anyway. Faint. Sickly.

  The air’s wrong. Not just stale.

  And ahead, just beyond the fog, I see it.

  A throne.

  No. Not a throne. That’s too civilized.

  This is an altar.

  A relic built for worship—the dangerous kind. The kind. It pulses with a presence that doesn't need words to demand reverence.

  Stone juts up around it like jagged ribs, wet-looking and sharp. Veins of gold writhe beneath the surface, like memory trying to squirm back into being. Not glowing. Not alive. Just... remembering.

  And the vines—lush, vibrant green—curl around its base like no one told them this place is dead. They shouldn’t be here. Nothing this should.

  It’s all wrong.

  My breath catches. I spin fast. Instinct. Behind me—an archway. Intact. Leads to a corridor. A path.

  I bolt.

  Boots slam against stone. My footsteps echo—too loud, too long. Like the walls are holding onto the sound.

  I reach the arch.

  And it’s gone.

  No flash. No transition. Just

  I’m back in the chamber.

  Facing the altar.

  Everything in me locks up.

  Cold slithers down my back, slow and venomous, pooling at the base of my spine like it’s waiting to strike.

  My fingers twitch. No blade. No weapon. Just breath, skin, and the sharp-edged silence of being

  I drag a hand down my face. Grit sticks in the creases around my eyes, mouth. Sweat cuts through the dust.

  I should leave.

  I step forward instead.

  I can’t stop.

  My hand lifts, slow, shaking—like it knows better.

  I touch it.

  Stone meets skin.

  And it’s cold.

  Not weather-cold. Not winter or wind or ice-in-your-coffee cold.

  This is cold. The cold of locked tombs, dead gods, and dirt that’s forgotten what it buried.

  Then—pressure.

  Hands. Thousands. Shoving through my thoughts like they own them.

  My knees almost buckle. I lock them. Barely.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Jaw clenches. Copper floods my mouth.

  Something moves through me.

  Not a push. A rewrite. Like parts of me are being overwritten in real time. Like I'm being .

  I rip my hand back. But the burn isn’t outside.

  It’s me.

  Something’s here. Something that predates code, systems, neat little interfaces.

  This isn’t just the System.

  It’s older. Wilder.

  Raw.

  It slithers in—not like water. Like smoke with weight. Like oil sliding through silk.

  Not a voice. Not exactly. More like a presence pressing in around the shape of my thoughts. Crawling under ribs. Clawing into my spine.

  I go still.

  Breathing shallow. Instincts flaring red. Everything in me says .

  But I don’t.

  Because something deep down already knows—

  There’s nowhere to run.

  You stop breathing. Not because something tells you to. Not because you choose to. You just—do. Because you see it now.

  A figure, draped across the throne like it belongs there. Like the stone had been carved with only it in mind.

  It wasn’t there before.

  No flash. No summoning circle. No chant, no fanfare.It just .

  Not shadow. Not flesh. Somewhere in the middle. Worse, because that in-between space shouldn't .And yet, here it is.

  It tilts its head. Your head.

  Same tilt. Same weight. Like it’s been watching you long enough to get the rhythm right. Practicing. Rehearsing the role of .

  You want to call it a reflection, but there’s no glass here. No tricks. No veil. Just open space, and that thing—half-formed, half-finished, all wrong.

  It has your body. Your frame. Your stance. Your scars. Every inch of you, traced in charcoal and not quite allowed to dry.

  But its face?

  Smooth. Empty. Skin where there should be features.No mouth. No nose. No eyes. No

  Just silence.

  You reach toward your own face. Hesitant. Fingers trembling like they’re searching for something that should be there but isn’t.

  It copies you.

  Hand to face. Fingers brush blank skin. No features. No expression. Just...nothing.

  Your breath catches. Tight. High in your throat. Instinct screaming before your mind catches up.

  The thing stands.

  Effortless. Boneless. Like gravity's a suggestion it politely ignores.

  It raises its head.

  It wears your face now.

  You reach again. Desperate. But your own face? Gone. Just skin. Smooth. Empty.Wrong.

  And your blood—your blood—spikes cold.

  Because this thing isn’t just mimicking you. It’s .

  It doesn’t want to imitate. It wants to .

  Your avatar. Your name. Your skin. Your voice.

  And it’s been waiting. Longer than you’ve been alive. And now you’re here? Oh, darling. It is ready.

  No reply?

  Of course not. You're still trying to remember how lungs work.

  It stares at you—not through glass, not through dreamstuff. Just through .

  No filter. No spell.

  Maybe it’s a memory. A recording bleeding out of the walls like blood through a cracked floorboard.

  And yeah—it looks like you. But it doesn’t like you.

  Same worn blue eyes. Same tired jaw. Even your age peeled back like old paint. But it doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't

  It just watches.

  And it you. Not the body. Not the muscle and scars.

  You.

  And when you take a step back?

  The floor pulses under your boots. Steady. Rhythmic. Like a buried heart calling its own name—and yours—with every beat.

  You're synced to it. Claimed.

  Relax, sweetheart. It’s just a tutorial. Not controlling you.

  The message floats. Pale text etched in the air like faded ink in an old love letter.

  It doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t fade.

  Just waits. Like does. The one wearing your stolen face.

  The air thickens. Copper on your tongue. Thoughts feel...off.Like someone broke into your skull and started rearranging your mental furniture.

  Not pain. Not pressure.

  Just—expectation.

  And you don’t want to say it. Not really. But you do. You have to.

  “Accept.”

  The word leaves your mouth like a dropped wrench. Sudden. Loud. Final.

  The stone groans beneath your feet. Deep and old. Like the world’s bones are shifting in their sleep.

  And then—

  Not warm. Not kind.

  It through you like a blade made of judgment. Bright. Cold. Clinical. Magic. Code. Memory. Divinity. All of it.

  It wraps around you like a lover with bad intentions.

  It squeezes. It knows you.

  You try to move. Can’t. Not out of fear. There’s just no room to move

  Stay still, sweetheart. This won’t take long.

  Can you feel it? The way your muscles twist. Bones flex. Tendons strain like someone’s trying to plug you into an ancient machine. Not agony. You’re not transforming. You’re being with.

  How much of are you willing to give up, Grant?

  Because this system? It doesn't .

  Your limbs jerk. Your vision blurs.

  The figure—your double—glitches. Smiles.

  You feel like wet clay.And the hands shaping you?Not gentle.

  This isn’t evolution.

  It’s possession.

  You didn’t ask for this.

  But here you are.

  And this world? It doesn’t give a damn about readiness.

  The System doesn’t wait.

  And neither do I.

  You died, remember?

  So move on.

  Be something else.

  Be something

  Be something worth my time.