On the other side of the door frame, the void continues indefinitely on all sides. The air here is cool, like a night in the forest, damp and moonlit. Despite the infinite darkness, they can see their own body as though it is cast in the light of a full moon and shining stars, and they take a moment to observe themself. Yes, still pale, yes, still covered in a dark sheet of hair, and unfortunately, it does appear that their blood is a near-black violet color.

  They frown, pressing a claw against their skin, and immediately draw tiny beads of blood at the motion. It stings, and they pull away, startled by the sensation. They grow curious and raise their claw to their lips, tasting their own blood. They’re coughing in moments - the substance tastes bitter and sooty, not dissimilar to tar. Something is fundamentally wrong with the flavor, lacking that sweet meaty taste they had expected. It’s colder, too, than they had hoped.

  Their tail curls for a moment as they recover, and they stand to their full height once more, taking in their surroundings. There is a double-door, now, in front of them, an opaque glass thing with a dim cool light behind it. Something stirs in their mind, telling them to get out of here, rush through the mysterious door and out of this void, but they don’t. They are far too curious for that.

  They turn and see that the previous doorway is gone. That suits them fine, so long as the new door stays. They turn back just to make sure it’s still there. It is, so they keep their eyes on it and circle the door. It is as they thought - they can go right behind the double-door. They step forward and try to push the door open and find that it doesn’t budge. They take two steps back before throwing themself hard enough to break through glass. The doors rattle but hold. They walk back to the other side of the doors and grasp the steel handles before opening them. There’s nothing on the other side. They step through anyways.

  Once they’re on the other side they can see lights behind their eyes, bright golden sparks blinding them temporarily with their power and glow. What took you so long? demands George. I was worried about you!

  They cock their head, and do a sweep of the room to see if they can find George’s body once again. They find it, sure enough, resting in a corner of this… where exactly are they? They take a second look. There are little brown chairs set in rows, all covered in stiff cushions that look beyond moth-eaten and resting on a dusty linoleum floor. Attached to this room is a reception desk (or is it a counter?) and a door just a little past that, and on either side of that room there is a long, dim hallway. There are flickering fluorescent bulbs that seem to cast more shadow than they do light, and the wallpaper consists of etched butterflies and blossoms and is peeling from the wall more than it’s sticking. Everything smells like chemicals and blood and dust.

  Friend? Asks George, and they snap back into themself. They turn to his body, which is in the corner of the entrance. They walk over to it carefully, like he might get spooked if they move too fast, or like he’ll run if they alert him. He does neither. He’s breathing now, though they have no idea how he’s doing it. His jugular is still missing a massive line of sinew and artery, and his breaths come in weak wheezes and rasps. His skull is intact, however, and as they crouch down to get a better look, they see that his face is quite handsome. A strong, powerful nose, defined cheekbones and jaw, smooth skin, and as one of his eyes lays half-open by his position pressed against the linoleum tile, a gorgeous green eye. They glance at the rest of his body. He’s wearing a large green shirt with a pattern of overlapping line, and underneath that is another green sweater of some kind. The spill of organ and blood is much more limited now, most of his body intact except where it decidedly isn’t. His stomach still has tears into the flesh and muscle of him, and the blackish blood under his nails hasn’t gone away.

  They gently grasp his hand, turning it over in their own. His palms are a paler color than the rest of him, the gorgeous color of his skin fading into another pretty shade. He’s beautiful. They glance at their own leathery white skin. Hideous.

  Friend? asks George again. Can you tell me what you’re doing?

  “Help,” they say, voice completely flat.

  Do you need help? he asks, and they shake their head.

  “You need help,” they manage to say, despite the rust and ache in their windpipe. “Injured.”

  Oh, I’ll be fine. Let’s not worry about me, says George uncomfortably. I’ll recover soon enough. Why don’t I walk with you in the next maze? I should be okay by then.

  They frown, and bend over his body, brushing some stray curls away from his lightless green eyes. “No carrying? Too injured?”

  There’s a sigh in their mind, and they can almost feel a puff of air over the tips of their pointed ears. Yeah, too injured. You shouldn’t touch me if you can avoid it, actually. I’m delicate compared to you. I can’t get up from these kinds of injuries.

  “But you’re healing,” they protest, the furrow between their brows deepening. They open their mouth to speak again and are instead forced to cough. The air is thick with dust, and it occurs to them suddenly that George shouldn’t be exposed to that, not when he’s this weak. “Wait,” they command, and get up.

  Where are you going? he asks, carefully curious. They do not respond, marching down the hall to their right. They find many doors on either side of the hall, and begin to choose them at random. Most are locked, and the first few they manage to open contain nothing but more chairs and a strange fake leather bed. They continue further down the hall until they find another waiting room. Confused, they continue to the left. Here they find something useful - a glass room full of small cages with beds inside, each with a small blanket. They find the door jammed initially, but they throw their weight into it, and it gives way. They step through the shattered door frame and march towards the tiny bed-cages. And then they stop, frozen.

  It smells like death here. They slowly turn, trying to find the source of the scent, and lay their eyes upon one of the cages, one unlike the others. There’s a small lump at the center of the bed, tucked in and carefully placed, like a doll. They approach it, their tail flickering, and they see that it’s breathing.

  And then it screams. And screams, and screams, and screams. They collapse to their knees in an instant, pressing their hands against their ears and gritting their teeth against the abrasive noise.

  Yeah, she’s in here, says George casually. I usually don’t walk this way for that reason. She makes a good distraction, though.

  They grimace, and stand on unsteady legs, approaching the thing one step at a time. They can see, on closer inspection, a rotting malformed skull supported by a small pink blanket, and despite the jaw of the skull never opening, it continues to scream. The blanket can be clearly seen moving in rhythm with the gasping breaths taken for the wailing, regardless of its decomposed state. They think to ask what this thing is, this small humanoid, but their mouth twists into a small frown at the thought of their voice being drowned out by the creature. They release their right ear and press it to their shoulder, reaching out with their right hand to cover its mouth. It begins to make muffled screaming noises.

  Wait! says George, Don’t–! Don’t do that, friend. Let her go.

  “She’s screaming,” they protest as the creature becomes quieter.

  You’re killing her.

  “Already dead,” they point out patiently.

  Just let her go! I- I mean, please, please let her go, friend.

  They let up their hand. The creature takes gasping breaths, and soon enough is wailing again, louder than before. Their tail flickers in irritation as they look down at the frustrating little beast. They turn at once on their heels, marching toward the other tiny bed-cages and ripping the blankets from them as the little beast screams. Once they have enough to cover George, they exit the room without another glance at the irritating being.

  Once they’re back in the hall, they trot to the second reception area, then to the first. They find that George’s body is still there, and they shake out the blankets quickly before approaching him and kneeling at his side.

  “What was she?” they ask, laying the small pink and blue blankets over George.

  A baby.

  “Baby?” they respond.

  It’s a small, new human. They’re very weak.

  “Are they always dead?” they ask.

  No, says George, then, What are you doing?

  “Dust,” they say, “Everywhere. Don’t want you sick. Why is there a baby?”

  There’s a lot of spirits here, he says. Some are monsters, like you. Some are long-dead humans.

  “Are you?” they ask.

  Am I what?

  “Long-dead,” they say simply, laying the last blanket on top of him.

  … No, but I should be. Humans don’t usually come back from this kind of damage. Right now, I am kind of like a spirit.

  “Why?” they ask, standing up and admiring their work.

  Why am I a spirit? Or why do humans not come back from the dead? What are you asking?

  “Why do you come back?” they elaborate, before heading off down the right hallway again.

  I’m cursed, he says, and then, There’s a reason humans don’t come back from the dead. I can feel the pain in my body when I get hurt like that, and I feel it until I die. Then when I start to live again, I can feel the pain of it healing.

  “What kills you?” they ask. “Monsters?”

  Yes. And demons, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one.

  “Demon,” they echo, the word feeling strange in their mouth. They take the left turn at the second waiting room again. “All hunt you.”

  Yes.

  They make a humming sound as they get close to the baby. They slip through the shattered door frame once more, and approach the baby carefully. It’s still wailing and screaming, but they have a plan this time, hopefully one that will not upset George.

  They stand over the crib, observing the noisy thing for a moment, and sparks flicker in the back of their mind. George finally says something as their tail begins to twitch.

  You’re not going to hurt her, are you?

  “Is she yours?” they manage over the din.

  What? he asks, and before they can repeat themself, he says, I never had any children, no.

  They lower their left hand into the cage, still wary of the baby’s screaming. They brush their clawed thumb over the baby’s skeletal temple. “Who is she?”

  George is silent, then. They gently slide their hand under the baby’s head, and she begins to quiet slightly, screams decreasing in their ear shattering volume. They slide the other hand under her back.

  She was my mother’s, he says suddenly. She had an accident, and my sister… didn’t make it. It was a miscarriage. That’s my little sister.

  “Accident,” they mutter.

  Car crash, he explains. My mother is one of the spirits here as well. She didn’t die in the crash, but if I find her hospital room, she’s always there.

  They lift the baby carefully, gently. She’s limp in their hands, barely connected to herself by ancient cartilage and sinew, and she’s far lighter than they feel she should be. They bring her to their chest, resting her against their body and cradling her in their arms. She slowly begins to calm, and begins to sniffle and hiccup rather than wail. They twist back and forth by their waist, their tail twitching behind them as they rock.

  It’d be very easy to kill her, to crush her skull in their powerful claws or between their teeth. It would be easier, less loud, than holding her until she calms down. But then George would be upset, and they can’t do that to George. As the baby’s sniffles become quieter and quieter, they begin to gently bounce her in their arms. A curious hand stops cradling as the other picks up the slack, and they brush the pad of their thumb against her temple once more.

  “Would your mother like the baby?”

  Wh– I mean, maybe? She’s a vengeful spirit, though, and tends to get violent. I’ve never seen her attack you, though… I mean, if you want to carry the baby all the way upstairs… It’d be a waste.

  “What was her name?” they ask, bouncing the now silent baby in their arms.

  George laughs. Did you know you’re very good at changing the subject? Her name was going to be Aria.

  “Aria…” they like the way the name feels in their mouth. They look up to the ceiling, the general area they assumed George is in. “I will take her to your mother. Then we will walk the maze.”

  George leads them up a couple floors, and as he does they are able to see visions of spirits, shadowy figures in the corner of their eyes, cloaked in darkness or at the end of a hallway or hiding behind doors. Whenever they go to investigate, the apparition disappears, and they grit their teeth in irritation. They feel like the cowardly things are hiding from them, and how dare the spirits hide. It feels to them that the phantoms are toying with them, playing games with something that should not be reckoned with. The sheer disrespect of it makes their blood boil. They let their frustration fester like a putrid wound, the anger digging into their skin like maggots.

  By the time George and themself reach the third floor, they are tracking and searching for the spirits like a bloodhound searches for a criminal. They can sense George’s wariness regarding their demeanor, but they can’t help it - these spirits are decidedly prey, and They are the predator. It’s in their nature to destroy these threats - especially if they are threats to George. No, they cannot let the spirits roam freely, not while they pose a threat to the defenseless body in the entryway to this maze of a building.

  We’re here, George pipes up, clearly unnerved by their stalking of the halls. They have dropped on all fours, tail whipping behind them as they lunge at shadows with Aria cradled lazily in one arm. They are unaware of the disturbing effect.

  They stand on their hind legs again, taking the silhouette of a human once more as they hold Aria close to their chest. “Your mother’s room?” they mutter, taking a sweeping look of the hallway. They had not observed the actual layout of where they were closely, more so focused on the prey within.

  Yes. She’s in the door on your right. They confidently walk towards the first door on their right and find that it doesn’t budge. Oh, not that one. The one a little further ahead. They obediently walk towards that one.

  They can sense a moment of tension, of hesitation, and they are confused as they have no qualms about entering the territory of another spirit. And then George speaks, his voice strained with nerves.

  Be… careful, okay? She’s rather…

  “I will be fine,” they say to empty air. “I am not afraid, and I will prevail. And I bring gifts. She will be grateful,” they add with absolute certainty, before twisting the knob and opening the door.

  As they enter, they notice the blue darkness of the room, as though the whole place is covered in ultramarine shadows. They can see fine regardless, and note the lump breathing in the bed at the end of the room. Through a curtained window streams a cold white light, and everything about this room is dust-covered yet sterile, quiet yet loud with the quiet rasping breaths of the shape under the covers.

  They don’t care about any of the details of this room, only noting the above, before striding forward, offering Aria like a tithe to a lord.

  The spirit does not react, and they wrinkle their nose in irritation at the lack of respect. However, this is George’s mother. They will not be disrespectful to someone George seems to revere, even if it is only an echo. They lay Aria next to her mother.

  Aria begins to wail like an unholy terror, screaming at such a volume that they have to cover their ears and stumble away. At once, the blanket lying over Goerge’s mother begins to writhe like it is filled with worms and serpents, crawling rapidly just beneath the surface. They hiss, a spitting, defensive sound, and Aria’s wail quiets for a moment before coming back nearly as strong.

  And then the Mother is awake. The blanket slips away to reveal a woman with ashen brown skin, large and once plump but now hollowed and jagged, twisted by a force that they cannot recognize.

  You should run–! begins George, but before he can finish his thought, his mother grips the air, causing their throat to tighten.

  They look into the sockets of her eyes, the bleeding black pits that must have once held mother warmth. Aria wails. Their throat tightens another degree as they are lifted into the air.

  Come on, move! He begs, and they do not listen. She’s going to kill you! Move!

  They do not fear death, but they do not wish to waste a life, either. They hiss, kick out, and their clawed foot carves through the disintegrating flesh of the spirit. George’s mother lets out a demented wail as Aria continues to scream, but she releases them from her grip, and they collapse to the floor, gasping.

  But they do not run away. They are unwilling to give her territory after her violence.

  They crouch down, tightening their muscles like perfect springs, before pouncing on the apparition.

  She’s solid enough to strike, and they show no mercy, stretching open their maw and tearing into the flesh of her jugular. It tastes like ash and rot and death, but they do not care, for they have no intention of eating her. They spit it out as their claws tear and fins purchase, and she grips and tears at them in turn but they cannot care about this either, for they must win. They tear another mouthful away from her throat, black ichor staining their mouth with the flavor of standing water. They spit and cough, and she manages to gain purchase on them, throwing them with force against a wall.

  Stop! demands George, but they care not for his order, coughing as the sharp pains in their chest rearrange into something normal. They find themself vomiting a strangely thick black substance, but pay it no head and lunge for the Mother once more.

  They wrench her arm from its socket, and their claws carve long gashes into her decaying flesh. She wails, screams, shrieks, something like all three, and their throat tightens again. She is desperately trying to kill them. They do not care, and twist their body to dig into her large stomach.

  It pours black and red and rot, and the stench is so foul that they gag. They leap away as she tightens their throat that last bit, and suddenly they’re struggling for air.

  Please, stop! You’re going to die!

  What a ridiculous thought. Her grip weakens, and they see their final opening, their chance to kill her.

  And then George sobs. They freeze, their throat tight from the choking, and the Mother advances.

  Please, mom, you don’t have to do this, George says, and it passes through their mind like it was not meant to be heard. They stumble back as Aria’s screams nearly deafen them.

  The Mother stutters forward, one place one moment and then closer the next. Her hand from her displaced arm stretches forward, ready to harm them once more.

  Please, don’t do this! Get away from it! Thinks George, and in an instant they realize that he’s still begging his mother.

  He doesn’t want them to die, but he doesn’t want her to die, either.

  How could they not acquiesce?

  They turn tail and barge through the door, rolling to a stop before skittering back onto their feet, their tail balancing them as they charge through the hall and away from George’s mother.

  She follows them, stuttering through the hall like a still image, coming closer. She’s chasing them, and the indignity of it almost makes them turn around, engage her again. She’s almost dead, they could take her easily, but…

  They turn at the corner of the hall, their eyes searching for some kind of hiding place. But all of the doors are shut, and they have no idea which can open. The spirits they had seen earlier, incomplete apparitions, begin to flicker into view, crowding the halls as they watch them flee like it’s a spectator sport.

  And then a door swings open. They dive through it, using their tail to shut it behind them before they scan the room in an instant. They find that it is a bathroom with stalls, and they duck under a door before climbing up the porcelain, shrinking in on themself as they control their ragged breathing.

  This is humiliating. They had no intention of losing that fight, so why–

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  They can hear the sound of air being displaced outside the bathroom door. They hold their breath, doing everything in their power to play as dead as everything else in this horrible place.

  It passes.

  After a few moments, they relax their tightly wound muscles, listening closely for the sound of the Mother, or perhaps another spirit entirely. After a minute passes in silence, they assume that the danger has passed, and stand up to open the stall door. They step out, quietly close the door behind them, and look down at themself. There are no injuries to their person that they can see, but their throat feels like a great crushing force is still being exerted on it, like a chain or a collar. Their chest feels tender, and they poke at it. It hurts, but not badly enough to affect them. Finally, their hands and feet are covered in chunks of black-grey-black flesh, dripping in watered down ink. It’s not their own, and they take it as a consolation prize for their attempted killing of George’s mother. They turn their attention to the much more important party.

  “George?” they ask the empty air. Their tail flicks back and forth as they wait. There is no response, so they ask again. “George?”

  … I’m here… manages George, his voice distant and quiet.

  They go cold, looking about the room as though they could find him. “Are you hurt? Did I do something? Did your mother find you? George, I–”

  It’s okay, whispers George, I’m more worried about you. Look at yourself.

  They don’t know how to comply, but they feel their attention being directed toward a glass mounted on the wall. They approach it and nearly jump back with a hiss before it registers - this isn’t another entity through a window. They are looking at something that moves exactly as they do – no, they are looking at themself. They step closer.

  They are the color of the walls of this place, a white that leans toward a pale blue-grey, their skin thick and leathery as they had expected. Their torso is covered with a short white smock, as they had seen before, but looking closer they can see a lace collar that seems rather like an unnecessary detail, and unnecessary care taken in their appearance. They would have never thought it existed. As their eyes travel closer to their face, they can see deep purpling bruises along their throat in the shape of a hand, indents where the incorporeal flesh of the Mother had been. And then they see their face.

  They’re almost disgusted by it. They have a face similar to George, at least on a surface level, with person-like eyes, a mouth, and a thin, straight nose, but that is where the similarities end. Their eyes are sunken and heavily shadowed by bruises, their nose has a bump along its arch, marring it, and their cheeks are hollow, as sunken as their eyes and pulled taught against their cheekbones. Their mouth is dripping that same ink-like blood, and when they open it, they can see that they have too many canines to be normal. Their hair is in thick black strands, almost in chunks, and falls somewhere around mid-thigh. They look hungry, frightening, and ugly.

  They take one step back, and then another, clutching at their throat. Yes, the bruises match. This is really them.

  Do they hurt? asks George, and they belatedly realize he’s referring to the bruises they’re clutching at.

  “Not really,” they mutter, their horrified expression stuck on the one mirrored in front of them.

  Ah, that’s good. You’re a much tougher beast than me, you know. I would have died in your place.

  Beast. That’s what they are, an it, a beast, a monster. They see it at once - whatever they are, they’re not a human like George. They know George had told them, tried to warn them, but the sight of themself makes them sick. They feel bile rise in their throat and tear their gaze away from their reflection.

  Are you upset? murmurs George, tone soft, and they squeeze their eyes shut. Do you need help? If my mother went too far…

  “Not that,” they say, and take another step backward. “Need to leave.”

  My mother’s not nearby, so you should be safe to leave. Although, please be careful - Aria woke up the staff.

  They are silent for a moment, fighting another wave of nausea, before they speak again. “What was your mother’s name?”

  … Her name was Chuni.

  Neither of them speak.

  I’m sorry she hurt you, says George, and at the same time they say, “I don’t want to kill her.”

  You don’t? asks George at once, sounding both bewildered and almost hopeful.

  “She’s yours,” they say, struggling to explain themself beyond that. “You love her. It is apparent. I do not want to hurt you.”

  Silence again, and then, That’s very kind of you. Thank you.

  They shudder, and turn to heave at their own disgust, both with their appearance and with their actions. They cannot explain the latter.

  God, are you okay? We can rest a while if you’re not feeling well! I’ve never seen you this ill, friend, we don’t have to press on–

  “I need to leave this place,” they say before staggering out of the bathroom, avoiding looking at themself as they swallow down their own bile.

  Once they are outside of the bathroom, a wave of bitter relief washes over them. They take a deep breath, and begin their true purpose: finding a way out of this maze. They dash down the hall, slower than before due to their lingering sickness, and quickly find a rhythm, navigating the area with ease now that they have a sense of where they’re going. George interrupts this.

  Friend, are you sure you’re alright? We can rest if you need. I know I’m tired–

  They stop at once, concerned. “Why are you tired?” they ask, and it comes out halfway between a worried query and a demand.

  Ah, I, uh, opened the door for you earlier, it’s nothing, of course, but surely you need to rest, too?

  “Are you vulnerable right now?” they ask, tail swishing back and forth.

  Well, not really, George said, and they immediately knew he was hiding a ‘yes’. It’s just a bit of an effort, but really, shouldn’t you be careful? There are monsters about, and you’re injured! We should stop for a little while, maybe an hour or two, until you feel better.

  “You’re tired,” they say at once, before dashing back down to the lobby.

  Well, I’m sure that will pass, too! There’s no need to worry, friend, honest. You’re the one who fought my mother, you took all the damage. Me? I’m still dead as a doornail, I’m afraid. Nothing’s going to come looking for me until I’m all fixed up. You, meanwhile, can still get yourself into all sorts of trouble. I mean, you’ve been so tense! What if you start another fight?

  “I’d win,” they say simply.

  That’s no guarantee, though! You could get hurt again! I’ve never seen you die, and I don’t want to start now, you see. You should just hunker down and rest. I’m sure my body will be fine.

  “You’re talking too much,” they said. “You’re afraid. Do you think I’ll hurt you?”

  George’s response was immediate, though nervous. Of course not, friend. You’re not trying to hurt me, right? I’m safe with you and I know it. But you’re the one who’s hurt, and watch out, there’s a nurse ahead, oh god–

  True to his word, there was a woman in a nurse’s scrubs, and as she turned to face them they saw her lack of features, her utter blank slate of a face. She was nearly as pale as them.

  She paid them no mind, however, as they prowled and stalked closer. She seemed indifferent to them, so they rushed past.

  Oh. She doesn’t attack you. That’s good, said George with a little uncertainty.

  “She respects my power,” they muttered, dashing down the last flight of stairs leading to the lobby.

  Haha, I don’t think that’s why… muttered George.

  They sprinted towards George’s body without acknowledging his words.

  Once they arrived back in the lobby, they could see George covered in the same small blankets that had been left on him the last time they were here. They carefully crouched down next to him, peeling away the blankets now slightly tacky with drying blood. He looks decidedly less dead, his breathing even and slow, his organs sealed inside of his skin. The piece of his throat that was once missing is repaired, and his clothes seem to be threading themself back together. Still, he bleeds sluggishly from the repairing deep cuts in his stomach, and his throat looks pale and scarred. Pink, almost. They trace their hand over it, and hear both the corporeal George’s breath hitch alongside his spirit counterpart.

  H-hey, don’t do that! I don’t want to have to start all over again–

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” they say with absolute certainty. “Does it feel painful?” they add.

  … It feels more bruised than agonizing. It’s a lot better than my stomach, anyway.

  “Good,” they say, before gently lifting George’s head, turning it carefully in their hands. He is delicate, after all.

  And then his eyes fly open.

  Both of them startle, with Them jumping back and away and George nearly knocking foreheads with them. George immediately yelps in pain, and they pant for breath, not at all expecting George to regain life so quickly.

  “Shit!” hisses George, clutching at his stomach as tears fall from his eyes.

  “George,” they croak, before getting themself together. “Did I hurt you? Are you okay? Do you need help? I did not mean to hurt you, I apolo–”

  “Shh, it’s okay, friend,” he hisses between gritted teeth, “This just hurts more if I wake up early. You’re not the first to disturb me while I’m healing, buddy.”

  They crawl a bit closer, taking careful account of his injuries. His stomach seems to be worse, now that he’s awake. They grab a blanket and gently press it against his stomach, and he takes it, copying them. He looks up and smiles weakly at them.

  “Thank you. And hello, by the way. I’ve never really properly introduced myself, have I?” he asks, and he holds out a hand to them.

  They reluctantly take it, afraid that they’ll hurt him in some way, or worse, frighten him with their inhumanness. Instead, he shakes it up and down, and they watch with curiosity.

  “I’m George Anand,” he says, and it sounds quite friendly on his tongue.

  “I’m–” they start, and then realize they don’t have a word for themself.

  George’s expression confusingly gains an underlying guilt, but it disappears as quickly as it came. “Don’t worry, buddy. You don’t have to have a name.”

  Right. Names were for humans. Only Aria, Chuni, and Goerge had them, after all. They attempt to smile, making sure to hide their teeth. George’s own smile brightens.

  “Look at you!” he exclaims softly. “You’re learning my silly human politeness so quickly. I could practically invite you to a family dinner.”

  They wrinkle their nose. “With your mother?”

  George laughs. “Well, she’s much kinder outside of this place. Once we get out of here, I’ll try to take you to meet her. She’s a wonderful woman.” George releases their hand, and just then they realize how warm their skin had been at the contact. They miss it desperately.

  “Oh,” they say, and then, “What do you eat at a dinner?”

  George smiles. “Depends on what my mother cooks.”

  They cock their head. “Cooks?”

  George laughs lightly before hissing in pain, clutching the blanket to his stomach once more. “Ah, you know, like meat but hot. It tastes good.”

  “Hm,” they say, considering it. They then place a hand on George’s shoulder. “You should lay down.”

  “Alright, alright,” mutters George, shuffling the blankets into a more comfortable position before draping himself across them. They remain kneeling, staring down at him as he closes his eyes.

  After a moment, he opens one, and his beautiful green eye fascinates them so much that they nearly miss what he says.

  “You don’t have to stare,” he says, and they frown, not fully understanding.

  “I’m making sure you’re safe,” they protest, and he laughs, almost sounding exhausted.

  “You can do that by facing the other way. I need to rest, friend.”

  They feel a burning enter their face, and cannot understand why. So, they turn and face the empty waiting room. Soon enough, his breathing evens out once again.

  George sleeps for a long time, they notice. He is still and nearly silent for nearly three hours before they begin to panic, the once calm ease of their mutual rest turning to fear. They gently shake his shoulders, mindful of his humanness.

  When his eyes open, he screams, scrambling away from them.

  Two things happen to them simultaneously - a strong urge overcomes them to back away, give him space, to be afraid themself. The second urge is to lunge forward and trap him against the wall. Instead of doing either, they stay frozen to the spot, their hands still raised to where his shoulders just were.

  George takes a few panting gulps of air before seeming to recover from his terror with an uneasy smile. “Oh, it’s just you, friend! Sorry, I’m not used to sleeping anymore. I nearly forgot about the nightmares.”

  They frown. “Nightmares? Do they hurt?”

  George laughs. It is strained. “No, they do not. They’re like… like real life, except fake. They’re frightening.”

  Their frown deepens. “So you were just scared?”

  George laughs lightly. “Yes, I was just startled.”

  They take a deep breath. “Okay,” they say, before standing up. They turn away and begin walking, ready to complete the maze.

  They hear George stand on unsteady legs behind them, and they turn to see him shaking. They turn back and he looks up at them nervously, cracking a wobbly smile. “Sorry, friend,” he says, “I’m just a little weak, still. Perhaps you should leave me behind. I can come to the next maze, of course.”

  “Why can’t I just carry you?” they ask at once.

  “I’ll only slow you down,” he assures them, before taking a seat. “I’ll be safe, I promise,” he says.

  They stare at him for a long moment before slowly turning away, ready to take on the maze.

  This maze is larger than the last, they realize, both in scope and in dimension. The halls are wider, taller, there are stairs and doors and strange rooms that they cannot make sense of. It is a little more confusing, but they find that they naturally chose a path that continues. They find that there are four floors to the building, and they seem to be slowly snaking toward the center. There are spirits everywhere, now, thin black shadows, ghosts dressed in lab coats and scrubs, and sometimes something long dead awakens in their presence. All of these apparitions avoid them, dancing around them, always keeping a respectful distance. It is appropriate, they decide, for they are the apex predator of this in-between place. They would kill anything that dared attack, and their mouth waters at the thought.

  They’re hungry, they realize as they get closer to the center of the maze. They need to eat. As they round a corner, another nurse wanders the hall, his steps uncertain, trailing. They lower themself so that they’re on all fours, stalking their prey with ease. It’s easy pickings, regardless - they are fairly certain these humanoids won’t attack unless provoked. Perhaps they’re even blind, as he shows no reaction to the change in their behavior, nor does he hesitate when they experimentally growl at him, warning him of their intent. He is a stupid creature, they realize, nothing like themself or George. They’re almost disappointed.

  They spring forward, pouncing on the humanoid, who falls in a heap of unsteady flesh and bone, almost loose in his construction. This, too, is unlike the human they have been accompanied by. He thrashes, claws at their skin, and suddenly something searingly sharp is digging into their side. They bite down on his throat at once, crushing its windpipe in an instant as cold black blood fills their mouth.

  No, this thing is nothing like George, only similar in its silhouette. They tear into its flesh, swallowing down chunks of its pale meat in ribbons. They taste the flesh for a moment, however, and are forced to gag, then to cough the contents of their nearly empty stomach onto their prey. They stumble back, their side screaming in pain as they cough over and over, trying to rid themself of the wrongness in their mouth. Whatever this thing is, it tastes of ash and smoke and dust and paper, and most undeniably of rot and decay. They hack and spit, trying to get the taste out of them.

  Something’s wrong with this creature. It is no good for hunting, and they’re hungrier than they were before. They swipe at their mouth with their palm, and when they pull it away, they can see more of that god awful ink-water substance. They wrinkle their nose in distaste.

  Are you alright, friend? Asks George, and they nearly jump. Since when has he–? They turn, only to find that his voice is once again only present in their thoughts. They look vaguely at a point in the ceiling.

  “Mm, yeah,” they answer, a certain gravel to their voice.

  Are you certain? He presses. I’ve never seen you try to eat one of the apparitions. It made you sick. Is something wrong?

  They considered their words carefully. George said that monsters like them hunt humans, so telling him that they’re hungry could be threatening. On the other hand, he also said monsters didn’t get hungry. Maybe something is wrong, and he could have the solution…

  “‘M hungry,” they manage, their throat still burning from their own bile, their side burning from whatever sharp thing had been lodged in their side.

  George is silent for several moments, something like restrained hesitation clouding their mind. They feel this unnamed emotion fill them, and at the same feel its intent to keep its distance from them.

  They stand and go to observe their injury, doing their best to ignore the feeling that does not belong to them. And then the fear spikes.

  You’re bleeding! Oh my god, are you alright? Shit, shit shit shit shit shit, you’re hurt, oh god,

  They turned to look at the source of their pain. A single silver handle stuck out between their ribs, black ichor dripping from its incision. They grabbed the handle of it.

  Fuck, don’t pull it–!

  They pull it out at once, and for a horrible moment it bleeds so heavily that their black-violet blood practically gushes from their wound. Soon enough, however, the wound slows its bleeding to something less alarming. It is certainly bleeding more than it just was.

  “It attacked me,” they explain, waving a hand in the direction of the spirit they just killed.

  They never attack their own - Jesus Christ, are you sure you’re alright?!

  They consider ignoring him, slightly irritated by the sudden invasion of his mind into their own, all the yelling and nerves and fear. But they do eventually respond with, “It will not kill me.”

  But it could cripple you! George exclaims, still wound up into a ball of nerves. There are golden sparks behind their eyes, now, as his emotions reach new heights.

  “Calm down,” they mutter, putting a hand over their side, pressing it against their wound.

  What if he hit an organ, though? What if you have internal bleeding?

  They wrinkle their nose. “Internal bleeding? I’m fine, George.”

  Louder than the rest of his pleas, he cries out, How do you know that?! He sounds almost angry.

  They growl, and the fear that does not belong to them curls in on itself. They pull their hand away from the wound, revealing a solid black scab. Both of them are silent for a moment, and then George speaks.

  I-I’m sorry, friend, I was just worried–

  “I don’t care,” they say, indifferent to the effect the statement could have on George. “I’m not hurt. Only thing that matters.”

  George is silent, and the feeling of fear slowly extricates itself from them.

  They let out a puff of air. That was… frustrating. “I continue the maze. Are you safe?”

  … yes, I am.

  They nod once in confirmation, before stalking through the maze faster than before.

  Their hunger has subsided thanks to the bout of acute nausea they endured, so they are much faster, far less focused on hunting. They are walking down a hallway on the bottom floor, opposite in orientation to where George’s body is resting, and see it - a double glass door leading further into the maze. However, something about it strike them as unusual - it is darker, and greener, than the rest of the hospital. They hesitate.

  What is it? whispers George, sounding exhausted.

  “New place,” they explain, “Not familiar. New color.”

  Yeah. This is the courtyard, buddy.

  “Courtyard?” they echo.

  It’s like a garden in the middle of a building. There are plants here.

  “Garden…” they mutter, the word unfamiliar to them. They suppose they won’t understand what he means until they step outside.

  They open the door and step out, and they suddenly are hit with a wave of nostalgia. Everything smells like night and earth here, and moonlight, and damp soil. They walk forward carefully, and they can see the other side of the building across from them, but there are many tall trees obscuring it as well. There are vines, bushes, and dead flowers. This courtyard seems cold and dormant, but like if it is given enough time it will bloom once more.

  Be careful here, friend, warns George. The layout changes as you walk it. You may have to double back a few times. Even monsters tend to get confused here.

  They nod once, and then they are off. They shortly find George to be right, as the bushes block their perfect path after a few minutes of dashing through the grass. They stop, cocked their head, before pressing into the bush. It grabs them at once, dragging them into its thorns and twisting around them, and they panic, tearing themself away as George cries out. Blood now coats the dying leaves of the bush, and they fall back onto their ass as they hiss in pain.

  Buddy, are you alright!?

  “Mmph,” they reply.

  You can’t cheat these mazes, he explains. You can always try to break down or unlock a door, but if you see a wall, it will stay a wall. Please be careful!

  “Mhm,” they agreed, their cuts and scratches closing. That had been far worse than that small blade. “Is this place alive?”

  … I’ve often wondered that myself, friend, but I really don’t know.

  “Strange,” they say, before getting back to their feet. They flick some of their blood onto the bush when its pooling becomes too irritating. It does not react, and they turn to find a new path into the maze.

  This part of the maze is all one floor, which they believe is a pleasant change. However, they can hear the sound of the maze rearranging itself to counter them, and that is not acceptable. When they make it to the end of this maze, they are going to wish for the mazes to have rules that make sense. How is someone supposed to solve a maze that changes itself? It’s unfair.

  They circle the center of the courtyard for a few minutes before they find it: a white door covered in plaster and moulding, in the center of an arch decorating the circular space at the center of the maze. They step forward, their tail flicking behind them as they observe the door. It’s pretty, and they trace the shapes in the door’s construction with their claws. And then they feel a buzz of fear enter them.

  Someone’s coming! hisses George, before they, too, become aware of something approaching. It sounds like a faint breeze from all directions, feels like shadows closing in, and as they spot a shadowy figure standing at their entry to the center of their maze, they feel George’s presence be torn away. They clutch at their head, suddenly feeling strange and pained and vulnerable. They can hear the shadowy figure laugh dryly.

  “Oh, my pet,” it chides, stepping forward, “Look at what that nasty human’s done to you. You’re nearly unrecognizable! I almost took you for another lost soul, dear one.”

  They stumble away, tail wrapping around themself, their back hitting the white door as they cower. Everything hurts, their mind filled with an animal instinct to maim and kill and eat, and it both feels familiar and so unlike themself that they want to cry. Their body feels too tight, too small, too brittle.

  You should be stronger than this, some part of their mind coos. You need to eat.

  No. That’s not their mind. It belongs to the entity before them.

  “Get away from me,” they demand with a low growl, baring their sharp canines.

  “Aw, baby, don’t you recognize me? I admit that it’s been a good long while, but surely you know your master.” It seems to smile, though they aren’t looking at its face. All they can see of it is its shadow coming closer, before they’re presented with two shiny black shoes and black slacks. “Look at me, darling. What has he done to you?”

  They growl, but find a firm hand gripping their chin. Their eyes are forced upwards, where a pale man is smiling down at them. He wears a fedora and a large black coat, a suit jacket and waistcoat under it. He has no hair, and his features seem to shift if they look at him for too long. He seems carefree but dangerous.

  “Oh, dear pet, what has that human done? He’s really warped you. You’re all bent out of the shape I made for you.”

  They don’t know what he’s talking about, but they find him disgusting nevertheless. They lash out, clawing at his hand, but they quickly find themself thrown back into one of the thorn bushes, gripped tight by the foliage as the man laughs.

  “Oh, oh my dear, sweet thing - he’s practically domesticated you! You used to be the fiercest beast in my collection, and now you’re stuck in that stupid biped form. How disgusting. Still, it’s good entertainment. Shall I invite my friends?”

  They growl, thrash, but the bush holds them tighter, hurting them.

  He laughs, head thrown back in a false show of human emotion. “Of course I will, since that dear old chap has so kindly put on a show for us. You don’t mind, do you, A????????p???????o???????l???????l????????y??????????o??????n?????????” You’ve always been such a good little pet. Your prey will be alive at the start of the next maze, if it so pleases you. Make sure you kill him eventually.”

  He’s talking about George, they realize, and then their rage overtakes them. They fight against the thorns, their skin quickly being torn to ribbons, but they don’t care. The man laughs again, as though the sight is a charming comedic display.

  “Oh dear, you’ve always preferred feeding on those with hotter blood. I suppose you’ve been so long without a proper meal that you think I’m food, eh? How cute! Oh, and one last thing - why don’t you keep a little secret for me, now that you can talk? I command you to lie to dear old George about my appearance, alright? You cannot say that you saw me, nor what I am, nor what I said. You will tell George you saw a very scary spirit, and that you ran through the door. That is all you will be able to share. If he asks if it was a demon, you will give him no clues as to which it was. Deal?”

  “Die,” they grind out between their teeth.

  His smile widens. “Oh, glad we could come to an agreement! Ta-ta!”And with that, the man disappears, the world becoming a much brighter place. The bushes release them, and they collapse onto the floor, panting. George does not return as they catch their breath, nor does he when they stand, their body scarred over, their smock frayed and bloodied. He’s behind that white door, now, and they must follow.

  They open it, take one final look behind themself at the courtyard, before entering the next maze.