The stairwell was too narrow.
Too dark.
Too quiet—until it wasn't.
Mira felt the hum the moment they stepped inside. It wasn't just sound. It was vibration—like the walls themselves were trembling, as if something deep beneath the building was awakening.
The stranger—her only anchor in the chaos—kept her hand firmly in his as they descended the metal stairs two steps at a time.
"What is that noise?" Mira asked, breath hitching.
"The second trigger," he said. "It always starts in the walls."
"That's… horrifying."
"It gets worse."
"Please stop telling me that things get worse."
He almost smiled—almost—but the tension in his jaw didn't soften. The hum grew louder as they neared the second floor landing. The air thickened, charged with something electrical and primal. Mira felt her skin buzz like static was crawling up her arms.
Her hair lifted at the ends.
"What is happening?" she whispered, rubbing her palms on her jeans.
"You're feeling the distortion."
"In the air?"
"In everything."
Great. Wonderful. Total nightmare-level stuff.
They reached the landing. The stranger didn't waste time; he pushed through the door without pausing. Mira followed, expecting another dusty archive room.
But the hallway they stepped into wasn't normal.
It was bending.
The far end of the corridor stretched in a way that made her stomach pitch—as if distance itself was being pulled like taffy. The tiles near the end looked elongated, the ceiling warped, the exit sign bending at an unnatural angle.
Mira stopped dead.
"Wh—what is that?"
"The cycle destabilizing," he said, already pulling her forward. "Second trigger always warps space."
"That's impossible."
"I know."
"And you're… calm about this?"
"No," he replied. "I've just seen it too many times."
That sentence landed differently this time. More real. More personal.
"How many cycles?" Mira whispered.
He hesitated. "Enough that you stopped asking that question every time."
That chilled her more than the distortion humming through the hallway.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, voice barely above a breath. "When it… resets?"
His grip tightened. Not painfully—just enough to ground himself. "Not in the way you think."
"But—"
"Don't," he said gently. "Not now. You're not ready for that answer, and we don't have time."
Mira swallowed hard and forced her legs to keep moving. The hallway stretched and straightened with each of their steps, as if the environment was trying to adjust itself around them. The lights flickered in a rhythmic pattern—like the building had a heartbeat.
The distortion trembled.
And the hum deepened.
The stranger stopped suddenly. Mira nearly collided with him.
"What?" she whispered.
"We're not alone."
Ice rushed down her spine.
"Collector?"
"No," he said softly. "This is worse."
"How is something worse than that thing?"
He looked at her with a tight expression. "Collectors chase anomalies. But Weavers… they rewrite the environment around them."
"Weavers?" Mira repeated, horrified. "As in—"
"Yes. They alter reality. Bend it. Thread it. Twist it."
He glanced down the hallway. "And one is close."
Mira's knees weakened. "So what do we do?"
"We outrun the distortion."
"I can barely outrun my anxiety!"
He squeezed her hand once—firm, reassuring. "Just run with me."
The way he said it—quiet but steady—ignited something in her. Not bravery, exactly, but a fragile determination to not fall apart. Not yet.
He took off, and Mira followed.
Their footsteps echoed strangely—too fast, then too slow, then suddenly muted. The corridor warped with each stride. Door frames melted into the wall, shadows stretched and curled. At one point, Mira saw her own reflection in a warped window—elongated, faceless, rippling like water.
She tore her gaze away, breath shuddering.
"Don't look at reflections," he warned. "The Weaver can use them."
"Oh, come on!" Mira cried out. "I'm done with this cycle's nonsense—"
A sharp sound cut her off.
A tear.
Not fabric.
Not paper.
Reality.
A thin line split down the middle of the hallway—like a seam in the world had ripped open. Dim light leaked from the crack, pulsing faintly.
Mira stumbled backward, her breath vanishing.
"What is that?" she whispered.
"The Weaver marking territory."
"Territory? Like an animal?"
"Worse," he said again. "Like an editor."
Before she could ask more, the crack widened with a sickening, velvety sound. Something moved inside the slit of light—shadows curling like ink in water.
The stranger grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Mira. Listen to me."
She struggled to focus, panic clawing at her ribs.
"You're going to want to look at it. Don't."
"What happens if I do?" she asked, voice trembling.
"You'll get caught in the rewrite."
"Meaning…?"
"You'll cease being you."
She froze. That cold, hollow dread settled at the base of her spine. He didn't let her linger on it. He took her hand again and pulled her toward the stairs at the far end of the corridor.
The crack in reality hissed behind them.
Hissed.
Mira didn't look back.
They sprinted. The hallway twisted violently, folding inward, then snapping back like elastic. The smell of ozone filled the air. The hum swelled into a low roar.
The Weaver's distortion was catching up.
"Faster!" the stranger urged.
"I AM TRYING!"
The stairwell door loomed ahead—but the metal stretched and shivered, the handle bending like soft clay. Mira's stomach lurched.
"It's melting!"
"It won't once we reach it," he said, dragging her forward. "It only destabilizes until you get close."
"How does that make any sense?!"
"It doesn't!"
Fair enough.
They reached the door just as the warped metal solidified. The stranger shoved it open, and they tumbled inside the next stairwell.
The door slammed behind them.
Silence fell.
Not comforting silence—thick, heavy, suffocating.
Mira leaned back against the cold concrete wall, panting, chest burning.
Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The stranger stood a few feet away, also catching his breath, though he tried to hide it. His hair was damp with sweat; his shirt clung to him. The strain showed in the tight line of his shoulders.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
"No," Mira said bluntly. "Absolutely not."
He nodded once. "That's normal."
She let out a shaky laugh. "Normal? Nothing about this is—"
But her voice cracked. And she hated that.
Something in his expression softened. Slowly, he walked toward her—not touching, not crowding, just offering presence.
"You're handling this better than you think," he said gently.
"I'm shaking," she whispered.
"You're still standing."
Her throat tightened. Those words hit deeper than they should have. Maybe because he sounded like he wasn't just encouraging her—he was remembering something.
Something painful.
Mira lifted her gaze. "Tell me something," she said quietly. "When you say you've seen me before… in other cycles… was I always like this?"
He hesitated for a long moment.
She wasn't sure he would answer.
"You were always brave," he said finally. "But you never believed it."
The honesty in his voice knocked the air from her lungs.
She swallowed. "What about you?"
He blinked. "What about me?"
"Are you… always the same?"
His jaw tightened. A flicker of something passed across his face—regret? Sadness? Guilt?
"No," he said. "I change every time."
"How?"
"In how much I can save."
Her breath stilled.
"Did you save me before?"
His eyes lowered.
"No."
She felt something inside her crumble, but she didn't blame him. Somehow, she understood—without understanding anything—that he'd been trying. Desperately.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
His gaze snapped back to hers. "You're sorry? Mira, none of this is your fault."
"Then whose fault is it?"
He opened his mouth—stopped. Closed it again.
"Mira… this stairwell leads to the place I've been trying to reach the past three cycles. A place where I can explain more. But if the Weaver reaches us first, that doesn't happen."
Meaning:
They had minutes.
Maybe less.
She nodded once, pulling herself together. She wasn't brave. She wasn't strong. But she didn't intend to die in a stairwell.
"Let's go," she said, more steady than she felt.
He stepped back, relief flickering in his eyes, and turned toward the stairway leading downward.
Mira followed.
He spoke while they descended.
"There's a basement level in this building that technically shouldn't exist. Storage rooms, maintenance tunnels… It's the same in every cycle. Except one door."
"One door?"
He nodded. "A door that never resets. Never changes. Never moves."
"And that's… good?"
"It's consistent," he corrected. "Which makes it the closest thing to safe."
"Closest," she repeated grimly.
The hum returned, faint but rising from above them.
The Weaver was catching up.
They reached the bottom of the stairwell. A thick gray door stood ahead, marked Utility Access — Authorized Staff Only. It looked unremarkable. Plain.
Completely normal.
"Through here," he said.
He placed his hand on the handle.
Before he pushed it open, Mira grabbed his wrist.
"One question," she said, breath tight. "What are you to me? In the other cycles?"
He froze.
For three heartbeats, he didn't speak.
Then—
"I was the one who stayed."
He didn't let her process that.
He pushed the door open.
They stepped into darkness.