A numbness crept up their spines. It wasn’t pain—nothing that specific. Everything just felt wrong. Like something was misplaced in the bones. An absence of feeling. A stilling of nerves. A silence so total, even the breeze dared not exist.

Tolki felt it first.

He was curled into himself in the corner of a collapsed chapel, freezing in the cold with no will to live. Salt clung to his cheeks. His body shook, but his tears had long dried. The red tablets had worn off hours ago. His hands were raw, red from clawing at the stone. Blood pooled beneath his fingernails. Still, he scratched. Still, he remained.

And then… the stone faded. The pain with it.

His arms went weightless.

He blinked and saw only void—hued deep violet and starless. Looking behind, he spotted a hut, standing alone in the emptiness. Strange craftsmanship. No thatch, no pitch or beam—certainly nothing from his village.

He stood on something that couldn’t be called a floor, just a plane within the void. Unsteady, but solid beneath his feet. He walked to the hut. A simple latch waited. He turned it and entered.

Maxime blinked at a wall he didn’t recognize.

Where had he just been?

He tasted iron. His coat was gone, remnants of it clinging to the collar. The last thing he remembered was the storm—and the forming of his Card. Crying out for help.

He looked down. The Card was in his hand, humming faintly.

A word scrawled itself across its surface:

GREED

The rest of the space below it was empty. Waiting.

Where was he? He couldn’t remember what happened. He prayed his family got away from the beast.

He turned slowly.

A well-furnished home stood behind him, impossibly real. At its center was a round, low firepit—crackling, alive. A log, a simple dining chair, and an odd chair with wheels around the fire. He walked forward, drawn to the familiarity of wood, and sat in the dining chair.

The fire roared higher.

He looked up, expecting smoke. There was none.

Instead, the roof above was made of stars.

Then… he heard it. A soft click. The latch of a door behind him turning.

He turned toward the sound.

Someone was coming in.

Terwin crawled off the operating table, limbs trembling from the pain. He grabbed a rag to wipe the dried blood off his chest, wincing as the fabric touched raw skin. Smoke hissed from the vents on the sides of his neck.

Everything hurt—but everything worked.

He exhaled. Deep. Slow. The Core was breaking in.

With every breath, he felt the machine adjusting to him… or him to it.

He glanced at his stitches, feeling the dizziness rise behind his eyes. He lost his balance. He fell.

But he didn’t hit the warehouse floor.

Instead, he landed softly—on a pillow. Cool sheets beneath his skin. The pain dulled to a murmur. Above him: a ceiling of stars.

He sat up, bewildered. The bed felt like something from royalty.

He stood, unsteady, and walked through the open doorway ahead. The hall beyond was gilded, lined with photos of people and places he didn’t recognize.

Until one.

A photo of the old man from the alley. Just as he remembered. Half-mechanical. Dying. Smiling.

His stomach twisted.

What was this place?

He heard a door open around the corner. He turned to follow the sound.

It led him into a chamber—open, firelit.

Three seats surrounded a campfire:

A log.

A wooden dining chair.

And a wheeled office chair.

One seat was already taken—by a boy, almost alien in appearance, with wide, confused eyes.

Another figure was just now stepping in, drawn from the purple void.

None of them spoke—until a voice echoed around the chamber. Smooth, but old. Like breath pressed through metal reeds.

"Sit… and all will be explained."

The flames pulsed with the words, casting flickering shadows that danced across the floor like spirits waiting to be named.