Monica dreamed of water.
Not the calm kind. Not the kind you float in.
This water was heavy.
It pressed against her chest, filled her lungs, dragged at her limbs like hands that didn't want to let go.
Somewhere far away, a voice was calling her name.
"Monica—stay with me. Don't you dare go."
Her eyes fluttered.
Then there was light. Too bright. Too sharp.
A monitor beeped in a steady, nervous rhythm.
Monica lay on a hospital bed, her skin pale, a faint bruise blooming along her temple. A thin tube ran beneath her nose. Her chest rose and fell, shallow but real.
A nurse stood at her side, checking the IV.
"We found her just in time," she said quietly.
"Another hour in that alley and she might not have made it."
A small boy sat in a chair beside the bed, his feet not quite touching the floor. He was clutching a worn backpack to his chest.
"Mom?" he whispered. "You said you'd never leave me alone."
Her fingers twitched.
Just barely.
Monica gasped and sat upright.
The void rushed back into place around her, the glowing path stretching forward into endless dark.
She pressed a hand to her chest. "I heard him."
Oliver was already watching her. "Your son?"
"And someone else. A woman. She sounded… tired."
"A nurse," Oliver said. "You're closer to your body than you were before."
"Is that good?"
"It's dangerous," he replied. "The closer you get, the harder the void will try to keep you."
As if summoned by his words, the darkness ahead began to move.
Not like before. Not like shadows peeling away.
This time, the void opened.
The path widened into a vast, broken expanse, like the remains of a city made of memory and fog. Shapes rose and sank in the distance—half-formed buildings, doorways that led nowhere, staircases that dissolved mid-step.
And above it all, something watched.
Monica felt it before she saw it.
Pressure. Like the air itself was thinking.
"What is that?" she whispered.
"The Warden," Oliver said, his voice low.
"The void's will. It doesn't chase like the smaller things do. It waits. It rearranges. It convinces."
The darkness gathered into a towering shape far away—not a body, not a face, but a presence that bent the space around it, like a wound in reality.
A voice rolled across the void—not loud, but unavoidable.
"She is tired."
Monica's knees nearly gave out.
"She is unfinished."
The world shifted.
Suddenly, she wasn't on the path anymore.
She was in a tiny apartment kitchen.
Sunlight spilled through cheap blinds. The smell of burnt toast filled the air.
Her son sat at the table, kicking his feet. Younger. Smaller.
And she was there too—moving too fast, stressed, tying her shoes while talking on the phone.
"I said I'll try," Past-Monica snapped into the phone. "I can't just leave work whenever I want!"
Her son looked down at his plate.
Monica's chest tightened. "I remember this…"
"You promised to come to my school thing," her son said quietly.
"I know, baby. I know. I'll try."
But she hadn't.
The scene froze.
The Warden's voice echoed through the memory.
"You are always trying."
"You are rarely there."
The kitchen darkened at the edges, like it was being burned away by shadow.
Monica shook her head. "That's not all of me."
The world shattered again.
Now she stood in the back room of the restaurant. Younger coworkers laughed in the distance. Her manager's voice was sharp and tired.
"If you leave early again, don't bother coming back," he said.
She remembered the way her stomach had dropped. The way she'd nodded and stayed quiet.
The way she'd chosen rent over rest.
Survival over everything.
"You choose everyone else," the Warden said.
"And call it love."
Monica's hands curled into fists. "I did what I had to do."
"And you paid for it," the voice replied calmly.
The room twisted.
Now she was sitting on her son's bed, late at night. He was asleep. She was still in her work clothes. Exhausted. Staring at her phone. Missed calls. Overdue notices.
She remembered brushing his hair back and whispering, "I'm sorry I'm not better."
Her throat closed.
Oliver's voice cut through the memory. "Monica. This isn't a trial. It's a trap."
The shadows crept closer.
"Stay," the Warden said.
"Rest."
"You have already given everything."
For a moment—a terrible, tempting moment—she wanted to.
Then she remembered the hospital room.
The backpack in her son's arms.
His voice saying, Don't you dare go.
"I'm not done," she said, and stood up.
The memories shook, cracking like glass.
"I don't get to be perfect," she said. "But I get to keep trying. And that means I'm not yours."
The darkness recoiled.
The path re-formed beneath her feet.
The Warden did not vanish—but it withdrew, watching.
Oliver exhaled slowly. "You felt that, didn't you?"
Monica nodded, shaking. "It's not trying to scare me."
"No," he said. "It's trying to convince you."
Far away, in the real world, Monica's fingers curled around the edge of the hospital sheet.
And for the first time, the heart monitor's rhythm grew a little stronger.