You think you've left.

  But the system runs long.

  Some segments only end when the screen does.

  The face was there—mashed sideways into the floor.

  Not just bruised. Shaped wrong. Jaw buckled inward, nose cracked and spread flat like something stepped on. One cheek torn loose. Skin folding the wrong way.

  Elias Vance had done that.

  The concrete still remembered.

  She—no, it—was upside down. Legs above. Arms bent the wrong way, braced against the frame. Spine inverting like a hook caught at the middle.

  The mouth never stopped grinning.

  Teeth bare. Gums split. No lips left.

  "Hee… you're… here…"

  The words came out like rot poured into a drain.

  The stench didn't wait for distance.

  Something sharp veered sideways—rancid, warm, wet in the way breath shouldn't be.

  Like salted flesh rinsed in sugar water, then left to drown again.

  Something behind it made it worse.

  Not the rot—the echo of it.

  Like spilled soda in a sun-warped GrubMore bag. Sugar, salt, and whatever came before.

  It slid across his mouth. Pooled. Refused to thin.

  His throat twitched.

  Didn't open.

  The bed shifted.

  Then snapped.

  A crack rang out—too close, metal splitting from weight it wasn't built to hold.

  Its arms had reached backward. Gripped the frame. Pulled.

  The mattress twisted in place, then turned completely. The frame followed—angled up, flipped hard. One of the legs broke off on impact.

  Elias's spine hit first. Then the rest followed—like gravity had decided in pieces.

  He rolled sideways, shoulder dragging. Elbow first, then hand. The space he'd hidden in was already gone.

  It was falling.

  A blur from above. Bent legs. Open mouth. The same smile, only reversed.

  He didn't fully stand. The ground pushed him forward. His palm slipped against something wet.

  It landed half a breath later.

  The scream cut sideways—shrill, pitched wrong. No pause between inhale and release.

  Not his.

  It kept sounding even after it hit.

  Then hands.

  Two figures crossed into view. One apron. One taller.

  Each took hold of a foot.

  The thing was lifted mid-motion—still upside down, arms loose, jaw clicking as if the scream hadn't stopped inside it.

  Neither one looked winded.

  They stood where the bed had been, one on each side. Holding it there.

  Holding it still.

  Elias gripped the flashlight.

  The switch resisted for a second. Then clicked.

  White light hit their faces.

  Skin soaked the beam instead of reflecting. Grey across the cheeks. Thin vapor unwound from their collars, rising slow, like breath forced out through seams.

  Dead things.

  No.

  Worse.

  Elias inhaled. Long. Shaky. The air tasted wrong—too warm, too flat, like it had touched flesh.

  The kind that's supposed to slow you down.

  It didn't.

  His chest stayed tight. Jaw locked halfway through the breath. No release.

  He'd always been good at holding things together.

  Timed exams. Rooms with too many eyes. The first girl who said she loved him.

  The first time the body didn't move after it hit the floor.

  He'd stayed calm for all of it.

  But this—this was built from something outside the shape of memory.

  It didn't care how he trained himself.

  He couldn't find the part of him that usually answered back.

  No plan came.

  Nothing moved.

  He really didn't know what to do.

  The thought echoed once.

  Maybe the dead did.

  Behind him, the voice returned.

  "Fire. Burn her. Burn her!"

  The woman hadn't moved her grip.

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  She still held its foot—tightly, at the joint.

  The skin there didn't twitch.

  "Burn it!" she snapped again, louder this time.

  It kept thrashing.

  The hands holding its legs slipped a little. The woman's grip bent at the wrists. The man's shoulders rolled forward.

  Still suspended—no feet on the ground, no way to push—it moved anyway.

  Its arms shot upward. Both hands locked around the woman's thighs.

  Then it lunged.

  The first bite landed just above the apron line. Flesh stretched. Then gave.

  Elias saw skin rip free. Blood hit the floor in clumps. The woman's legs stayed standing, but they no longer held anything steady.

  It kept pulling.

  One hand climbed higher. Nails sank in below the hip.

  Smoke came off the contact point.

  Not fast—thin wisps, rising where the skin browned.

  The woman started to shake. Her knees dipped. Her body leaned forward without choice.

  Something dark slipped out from her stomach.

  Not red. Not slick. Not moving like it should.

  On the other side, the man moved.

  His mouth opened. Teeth—black, flat, uneven.

  He reached under. Both arms wrapped around its legs and pulled.

  The whole thing turned in the air.

  The woman lost grip.

  The man held.

  He didn't say anything.

  Just turned the thing toward himself, like that was all he could do.

  "Fire. Fire. Fire."

  The voice rang again.

  Elias's eyes scanned the floor. The walls. The dark behind the broken shelves.

  Then he saw it.

  A camp stove. Tucked into the far corner, just past a stack of rusted chairs. A small propane tank leaned against the base.

  He ran.

  The unit clattered as he dropped beside it. His hand twisted the valve.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  No flame.

  The igniter kept snapping—sharp, metallic. Nothing caught.

  He turned.

  Across the room, the man had fallen backward. One leg bent under him. The other kicked once. Then stopped.

  The thing was still latched onto his chest.

  "Shit."

  Elias dropped lower. Grabbed the tank with both hands and shook it hard.

  Sloshing.

  He stood again. One more spark.

  Click.

  This time, flame.

  A thin blue jet. Small. But real.

  He turned.

  The banners were still there—scattered from when the bed flipped.

  Some near the frame. Others caught on the shelving.

  He ran.

  Vinyl. Cotton. The wet kind that clung to itself.

  Letters still visible—sharp, red, slashed like warnings.

  Hands moved fast. Pulled what they could free.

  Back at the flame, he hesitated.

  They were still standing there—the woman and the man. Both holding it down. Still burning.

  The fire wouldn't stop with the thing.

  It would hit them, too.

  But he had nothing else.

  He drove the banners straight into the fire.

  The fire caught instantly. Bright. Fast.

  He grabbed the burning mass and ran forward. Didn't aim. Just threw.

  The cloth struck center.

  Flame curled upward. The thing thrashed.

  So did the others.

  Both screamed.

  The woman first. Then the man.

  He flinched. They were helping him. And now—

  But they didn't pull away.

  The woman reached out. Pulled one of the burning strips across her chest.

  The man followed. Grabbed more of it. Pressed it to his side.

  Together, they wrapped the thing in fire.

  Tighter.

  One at the head. One at the feet.

  Neither moved back.

  They held.

  Elias stared.

  This wasn't protection.

  This wasn't escape.

  They wanted it gone.

  Even if it meant burning with it.

  The fire climbed.

  It lit their faces first.

  The woman's eyes caught it at the corners. The man's mouth hung open, dark in the glow.

  Something in Elias jolted.

  Too familiar.

  Like he'd seen them a second ago. Somewhere that wasn't here.

  The shellbody bucked hard once—twice. The arms flailed, legs kicking into dead weight. But the two didn't move.

  They stayed on it.

  And burned.

  The color shifted.

  Orange slipped into green. Then deeper—into something that looked colder, but burned louder.

  The scream cracked into static.

  Then stopped.

  The room held still.

  Just ash now. Three piles. No shape. No flame left.

  Then it came.

  The air didn't press. It lingered—waiting for a sound that didn't come.

  The Signal returned.

  Trailing it—The Curator.

  Same rhythm. Same tone. Same breathless drag at the edge of each word.

  【"Visitors. At the end of this segment, I only ask one thing.

  Remember—some debts don't disappear.

  They change hands."】

  Silence.

  【"That's all for today's Signal.

  Thanks for staying with us.

  We'll connect again—different place, different time."】

  A pause.

  【"If you want updates...

  LoopNet access code: F13.

  Might help. Might not."】

  【"Who knows—next time, the segment might be about you."】

  The voice dropped.

  Gone.

  A second passed. Maybe less.

  Then the floor fell sideways.

  Light cracked.

  Elias's head spun. A flicker. Then dark.

  He hit the ground before he could catch the fall.

  —

  When Elias opened his eyes, the sky was still there.

  So was the pavement.

  He was lying just outside Velvet East.

  No lights on.

  No car.

  Nothing else.

  His phone buzzed.

  The screen lit up. A voice followed.

  "Velox confirms—driver en route. Please wait at the designated pickup."

  The light stung. Eyes shut once.

  The curb under him was cold.

  Velvet East behind him. Dark. Unchanged.

  Checked the screen again. The timestamp hadn't moved.

  It was the exact second he'd stepped out. Same request. Same response.

  He always tracked time. Tonight, even more than usual.

  The sleeves were clean. Unmarked.

  Not even a scratch. Nothing in the air.

  Shirt dry. Skin clean.

  People don't vanish in fire like that.

  And scars don't vanish that fast.

  His thoughts hadn't settled.

  The scream had been real.

  That much he was sure of.

  Then brakes.

  A Waymond pulled up beside the curb. Compact car. Matte gray. The engine too quiet.

  The window rolled down.

  A young man leaned out. Mid-twenties, too thin, eyes half-open.

  "You call a Velox?"

  Elias froze.

  Not the driver from before.

  Different face. Different voice. No weight behind it.

  He hesitated.

  Then moved.

  Whatever had just happened—dream or not—he couldn't risk staying out here.

  He opened the rear door. Slid into the back seat.

  The door shut behind him.

  The ride began.

  The phone stayed in his hand.

  A line returned—

  F13.

  He didn't know why it came back now.

  But it felt close. Too close to ignore.

  He opened LoopNet.

  The screen didn't flash. Didn't load with sound.

  Just a bar.

  【"Input access code."】

  He typed: F13.

  The interface shifted.

  A new channel surfaced.

  【SIGNAL / SYSTEM ACCESS POINT】

  【Status: Live】

  He tapped.

  Text unfolded at once.

  【"Welcome to SIGNAL.

  As a visitor, we hope you stay alive long enough to grow the audience."】

  It read like something auto-generated.

  He tapped the log icon.

  LoopNet opened the history tab. A single entry blinked at the top.

  【Segment Snapshot · Logged 10 Minutes Ago】

  He tapped it.

  The screen loaded slow.

  First—text. Then images.

  The headline wasn't formatted. No title. Just a single phrase at the top, red as blood:

  【Some debts don't disappear. They change hands.】

  Then came the photo.

  A street corner. Elias himself, caught mid-step.

  Behind him—a car.

  The same car.

  The one from the dream.

  Inside it—

  The driver.

  The one who'd run the girl down.

  His face was half-visible, slumped against the wheel.

  Neck twisted the wrong way.

  Mouth open.

  Another image.

  The three figures.

  Burning together.

  Their shapes collapsing into ash.

  One more.

  The final photo showed the driver's body again—closer this time.

  Folded into the seat. Bones bent backward.

  His limbs had folded inward—unnatural, close. Like he'd been forced into himself.

  In the bottom corner of the photo—

  A girl's face.

  One eye visible.

  Black hair framing it.

  Smiling.

  His lungs stalled.

  The cold hit low—under the ribs.

  Whatever it was, it stayed.

  The radio cracked.

  Then switched channels mid-tone.

  A voice came through—flat, calm, late-night register.

  "We're following breaking news tonight out of downtown."

  "A single-vehicle collision has been reported on Red Hill Avenue. A SableLine sedan struck a support column just past the Elmbridge exit. Emergency services are currently on scene."

  "Drivers out there—stay safe. Don't push the night too far. Stay alert, stay alive."

  The driver glanced at the dash.

  "Red Hill's not far from here," he said.

  Silence.

  Five minutes passed. Maybe less.

  The station cut again.

  "Update just in—authorities have now confirmed the vehicle involved in the Red Hill crash is the same SableLine linked to a hit-and-run earlier this evening."

  "That earlier incident occurred on Hollow Bend Road, where a young pedestrian was struck. The driver fled the scene."

  "Investigators believe he may have lost control of the vehicle during the attempted escape."

  The driver let out a low whistle.

  "That's karma," he muttered, tapping the side of his leg.

  He didn't see what was behind him.

  Didn't see the passenger's breath pause.

  Or the sweat breaking under his collar.

  The fire was gone.

  But the glow stayed under his skin.