Sasha

  5 years BA.

  ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.

  I woke up.

  I was still here—no Chaos, no pain. It was already the thirteenth day.

  The light was dim. It would turn on at “7:00.” The clock: Chan had explained them to me. Why twenty-four hours? Why these exact lengths? She didn’t really know—just history, she said. Layers of choices made by people long gone. Real people. Real memories.

  So many things here were just “as they are”; they didn't make sense, but they stayed the same. Before—in Chaos—nothing made sense, and nothing stayed the same.

  I was awake. I had to wait for Chan. That’s what mornings are—waiting. I was lying still, staring at the ceiling, thinking, repeating, trying not to forget. I could walk now; I barely wobbled. Yesterday, I ran. It was… good.

  I want to do it again, I think. Can I?

  (Stop. Stop thinking these things.)

  I was repeating words and concepts they taught me. I can’t let myself forget again. It’s so much information, but there’s no pain here, so I keep going over it in my mind.

  I learned that Edgar and Dr. Kein are “he.” It’s strange. I thought only Chaos was “he.” That word belonged to him. Why would they use the same word? But Chan laughed and said it was the other way around—that humans use “he” for many people, because that’s just how their language works.

  There’s some anti-pain in that idea. I’m not sure why. It’s as if humans gave him something, rather than him taking from them. As if they have some control over him.

  Then she tried to explain how some people are “he,” some are “she.” That part seemed clear. The rest didn’t.

  How to tell who is who, how to recognize—there were rules, but they were so random. More exceptions than patterns. Even Chan admitted: “It doesn’t really make sense, actually.”

  She said I could use “they” if I’m not sure. Why don’t they always do that? And does it matter?

  Everything I learn about “social” things feels like a maze, and I’m in the center of it.

  They don’t punish me for a wrong turn—yet. But I’ve made too many mistakes; I keep making them. Surely, at some point, they’ll punish me. I should try harder.

  (What can they do that Chaos hasn’t already done?)

  But my mind circles back to the question I can’t answer: why?

  Why do they keep me here? Why do they spend food, space, and time on me?

  I have nothing to give in return.

  I asked them, but their answers… they weren’t lies, yet they weren’t truth either.

  They said, “Because we care.” “Because we’re grateful.” “Because you deserve everything.” “Because you saved us all.” “Because you’re human.”

  But none of that translates to food, time, or resources. None of it explains why they spend all this on me.

  None of it explains… giving.

  I don’t understand.

  They all seem to believe in this “Savior” story. Supposedly, I was once one of them—Sasha Irving (don’t forget the surname again!)—a human, who then became Chaos’s scapegoat to save the entire world. And I don’t remember it because, for me, it was an eternity ago.

  Even if it’s true… they should realize I’m not her anymore.

  Whatever she was, whatever she could give—I can’t.

  I can only suffer.

  Unless—

  what if that’s exactly what they need?

  One of the memories they gave me—supposedly from Sasha—flares to life. She—I—stand in front of some massive arch. I’m afraid—so afraid—but resolved. I have to do it. There’s no choice.

  Edgar is there. He looks at me with something in his eyes that hurts. Love. In that memory, I know it’s love.

  (What is love?)

  “Farewell, daughter,” he says softly.

  My chest aches. I must save this moment, save it for whoever I’ll be after I return, so she knows this man cared for me, that I can trust him, rely on him. He is hope in my mind—hope that life, future, happiness, and love exist afterward.

  So I reach for the memory-recording device. “The Door requires the whole soul,” I know, I know. I’m risking it. We’ve already stretched the limit. But I need this. What do I have to lose? I try anyway—I reach for the device, and…

  The memory ends.

  I ignore “daughter.” I can’t think about that.

  “The Door needs the whole soul.”

  This is important. The missing piece.

  This is it.

  I’m not whole anymore. I saw my essence—my soul—fragmented, scarred, shattered. It’s nothing like theirs. Even Edgar, who is also broken, is so much more than me.

  Of course. That’s why they let me grow. That’s why they waste food. That’s why they say they care. The Door needs a whole soul, and I’m not whole. Not yet.

  They need a Savior regularly.

  And the Door needs a whole soul.

  They will let me grow, let me heal, and send me again.

  Of course, they will.

  They knew. They always knew what Chaos would do. They sent me anyway.

  So why wouldn’t they do it again?

  I’m good for nothing else.

  Of course.

  Of course.

  It makes perfect sense—how did I not see it sooner?

  They answer me, but not honestly, never saying what they really want. Only that I’m “safe,” that I “deserve” things, that they “care.”

  They did it once.

  They’ll do it again.

  I should have known, I should have known, I should have known.

  Did Chaos teach me nothing?

  They can’t even lie well. Edgar looks at me with something—guilt, maybe, or sadness, or hesitation—like he’s waiting. I should have known.

  A sound claws its way up my throat, ragged and alien.

  My breath comes too fast.

  The room shrinks. No. No, it’s closing in. The walls press against me. Everything unravels. I am unraveling.

  I know fear. I’ve lived inside it for millennia of soul-crushing terror.

  But this—

  this isn’t fear.

  This is something else.

  Something sharp, tight, heavy.

  This body isn’t working. The lungs pull too much air. Heart hammers too fast. Thoughts snap apart—too many—too loud—too wrong.

  I can’t be here. I can’t stay here.

  I need to stop.

  No—

  I need to fight.

  The fail-safes slam down, stopping me, but I shove back. I push them out. It hurts—a cage of fire and chains twisting deep into me. I will tear it apart. Agony flares bright, threading into my soul. Finally. I lean into it, welcome it. Yes. Yes, that’s right. Pain makes sense. Pain is real.

  The net resists—clamping down, searing deep, biting into the fragments of me.

  So I push harder.

  Something in the air snaps.

  The walls ripple, the world flickers.

  For a fraction of a second—

  reality fractures. Other dimensions bleed in.

  Space-time folds, collapses, halts.

  Stops.

  And then—

  alarms, screaming, magic slamming down like shields—

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  But I don’t see anything—I feel everything.

  Am I disappearing?

  Did I do it?

  Did I finally do it?

  Something presses against my mind.

  I shove it away, snap it.

  And then—pain.

  But it isn’t mine.

  A sharp crack in the air, a breath cut short.

  Not Chaos.

  Chan.

  For one terrible, frozen second—

  I hurt her.

  I hurt her.

  I hurt—

  Please, no... -

  But she’s still here, in front of me. Blood streaks her face, yet her hands are steady, and I realize—

  she’s trying to reach me.

  Why?

  (I’ll do it.

  They don’t have to pretend.

  I’ll do it.)

  “Sasha.”

  Chan’s voice is tight—neither angry nor demanding, just present.

  "Sasha,” Chan exhales. There’s pain in her voice, but it's steady. “You’re—” A pause, just for a second. “You’re having a panic attack."

  What?

  This isn’t an attack. It’s truth.

  “You need to breathe,” she says more gently now, even though her body hurts—because of me. “Slow, with me. In… out…”

  I don’t move.

  I don’t understand.

  But Chan stays. She’s still close, still looking at me like I matter.

  I don’t know why.

  The air is too heavy, my hands shake, and I need something—anything—to anchor me.

  I hurt Chan.

  Why is she still here?

  “In… out.”

  So I breathe. Not because I understand, not because I believe, but because she is here, and she tells me to.

  -----------------------

  Chan

  Chan was already hurrying toward Sasha’s room when the alarms blared through the corridor—sharp, urgent tones.

  A drill? A malfunction?

  Then the walls bent.

  It was as though reality took a half-step sideways.

  Chan’s stomach flipped as the corridor distorted, space rippling in ways it shouldn’t. The arc-lights elongated like reflections in warped glass. Shadows skewed at impossible angles, smearing across the walls as though the laws of geometry had slipped. A static charge thickened the air, a searing tang of ozone—and beneath it, a raw magical energy thrumming on the edge of control.

  Every instinct screamed—run away.

  Chan swore under her breath and sprinted towards the source.

  Sasha.

  The scene inside wrenched a gasp from her.

  Furniture warped, twisting like heated metal. The bed sagged along its edges, half-melted into an unrecognizable shape. Cracks spread in midair—jagged seams of un-light pulsing as though the very fabric of space was on the verge of tearing.

  Off to Chan’s right, a support beam groaned, partially liquefied, and the sharp reek of scorched metal bit at her nostrils.

  At the center of it all, Sasha sat hunched over, arms wrapped around her head. She shook violently; the entire bed frame creaked under invisible strain. Her eyes were wide but unfocused—desperate, terrified… and utterly lost.

  Heavy footsteps thundered behind her. A squad of ACC mages fanned out, runes shimmering on their uniforms as they wove containment spells. Frantic arcs of energy crackled across the corridor, colliding with Sasha’s distortions before fizzling out.

  Edgar’s voice cut the air:

  “Chan, no! We have to stabilize—”

  She ignored him.

  One look at Sasha’s trembling form told her everything. The rigid shoulders, the ragged breathing, that near-hysterical freeze: a panic attack. She’d seen it too many times before.

  Well, maybe without reality having a meltdown at the same time as well. Maybe not so fucking terrifying, with, you know, cosmic-scale magic bleeding across the walls in fractal streams.

  But Sasha wasn’t attacking—she was just overwhelmed.

  A child, suffering.

  Chan stepped forward, and the space itself seemed to push back—gravity bending in odd swirls, tugging her in conflicting directions. Time stretched just enough to make every step a slog, as though she might be pinned in place, caught like an insect in amber. A deep vibration pounded at her skull, temples throbbing from the sheer intensity of Sasha’s power.

  “Sasha,” she called, forcing a steady voice when every nerve demanded she run. “Sasha, look at me.”

  She reached for their mental link—

  And a jolt of raw energy clamped down on her mind, hot and crushing.

  Pain punched through her head. White spots swallowed her vision. The sheer impact staggered her, a bright flare at the bridge of her nose, the taste of copper flooding her mouth.

  "Well, that was fucking stupid," Chan thought, wiping away a thin trickle of blood. "But I’ve had much worse."

  Sasha needed her.

  “Chan, get out!” Edgar shouted again, closer now, tension sharp in every syllable. “We have to reinforce the fail-safes—”

  “She’s panicking,” Chan shot back, breath hitching. “It’s just a panic attack!” Her gaze flicked to Sasha’s twisted expression—terror and bleak despair tangled in every labored breath.

  Sasha’s magic flared again, warping reality like a desert mirage, metal heating to a glowing red before instantly cooling. Sparks arced from half-burnt runes on the walls, each symbol struggling under the strain.

  Chan could feel Edgar's magic answering, resonant with raw power. He seemed to match Sasha’s surges only by inches—like a dam holding back a flood that kept rising. Glowing symbols spiraled up his forearms as he fed energy into the fail-safes, each pulse barely containing her next onslaught.

  Chan never saw the magic that powerful. Some part of her was in awe. Most was terrified.

  She braced herself, then dropped to one knee beside Sasha. This time, she eased into the mental link, a cautious nudge rather than a forced push.

  Sasha, it’s Chan.

  For a heartbeat, the static around Sasha’s mind eased. She glanced up, eyes wild. The room heaved again, but the distortion shrank slightly.

  “Sasha,” Chan said, voice ragged with her own fear. “You’re having a panic attack.”

  “You need to breathe,” Chan insisted, brushing away the blood under her nose and fighting the pounding in her skull. “In… out… with me.”

  At first, Sasha seemed unreachable—her mouth shaped a silent No. But Chan repeated it, gentle yet unrelenting. A desperate lullaby. In… out… in… out…

  And Sasha started to listen.

  Slowly, the reality stitched itself back. Matter remembered to be matter. Walls resumed being walls. The lights overhead sputtered while twisted chunks of metal littered the floor where equipment had melted. The bed’s warped edges solidified into a battered hulk. Magic withdrew from the corners of the room, leaving spider web fractures in the paint.

  Chan’s ears still rang in the hush, her skin prickling with leftover sparks of energy.

  Finally, the last flicker of wrongness vanished, and Sasha sagged forward, breathing hard, face chalk-white. Chan swallowed and gently placed a hand near girl's arm—close enough to reassure, not forceful. The air still crackled with faint echoes of her power.

  She nearly took down the whole room… and this was with fail-safes.

  Sasha looked at Chan—and then saw the blood smudged on her cheek.

  She froze, eyes wide with guilt. Mortified.

  “I hurt you,” Sasha whispered, voice unsteady.

  Chan released a soft breath. “A little. But you didn’t mean to.”

  Sasha’s confusion and remorse were plain, and Chan’s heart twisted.

  She could sense the girl’s fractured mind and now see the sheer, perfect logic of her terror: I’m only good for suffering. They’ll send me back.

  It made a terrible kind of sense. Of course, she would think that. How didn’t they anticipate it?..

  Chan shut her eyes. Rage burned beneath her ribs—not at Sasha, but at the world that had done this to her.

  She exhaled, forcing calm. “Sasha. You’re not going back. It’s not possible.”

  A breath. Then, quieter, “I can prove it.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. The words spilled out, an idea sparked by pure instinct. “We’ll take you to the Door—right now. Let you see why it can’t accept you again.”

  Sasha still looked shaken, but she latched onto Chan’s voice. Maybe a glimmer of hope, or sheer desperation. Chan stood and held out a hand. “Come on.”

  Sasha hesitated. Then—slowly—took it.

  Fuck.

  Only then did Chan remember it wasn't her decision to make.

  Edgar’s gaze flicked over the blood on her face, then to Sasha’s trembling grip. Behind him, the other mages panted, runic circles still glowing on the floor. One glanced at Chan with open alarm—he’d seen the half-twisted room and how close the meltdown had come to ripping the entire wing apart.

  Edgar’s jaw tightened, his arms falling to his sides as he let the fail-safes settle. A heartbeat, a silent exchange.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  What I have to.

  This might doom us all.

  Possibly.

  If Sasha was a hidden agent of Chaos… or if echoes of his presence near the Door triggered her… But backing up now would destroy whatever fragile trust they built here.

  Finally, Edgar exhaled, jaw tight—and nodded.

  Fine. We’ll try it your way.

  Chan swallowed, relieved. She turned to Sasha, managing a steady smile. “We’ll show you the truth, so you’ll never have to doubt again.”

  Sasha’s fingers clutched Chan’s sleeve, unsteady but trusting enough to follow.

  Chan wasn’t a soldier—just a researcher with a battered nose, a throbbing head, and an unwavering conviction that this terrified girl deserved real answers.

  Even if it risked everything.

  Because without Sasha, none of them would be here at all. Because they owed her everything. And it's about dawn time she starts to understand it.