They walked forward.

Not because they were ready.

But because the Hollow demanded it.

The fog didn’t part—it shifted, curling around each of them like a curtain being drawn back. The path beneath their feet no longer felt like forest floor. It pulsed, soft and uneven, like they were walking across something alive. Something remembering.

The reflections waited.

Each one tailored. Each one cruel.

No one spoke. Even Rose, who had already faced her trial, kept her eyes down, her magic quiet. She knew what came next. She could feel it in the air—how the Hollow bent itself around their hearts, not their weapons.

Oscar was the first to step forward.

His boots scraped against the glass-like surface as the fog thickened around him. The others slowed, giving him space, instinctively knowing this was his moment.

The air grew colder.

Then the voices came.

Soft. Fragile. Familiar.

Children crying. Not loud—just enough to break something inside. Their silhouettes flickered in the mist, small and hunched, reaching toward a door that wasn’t there. A lab. A memory. Rose’s name echoed faintly, like a warning he hadn’t listened to.

Oscar’s breath caught.

He didn’t move. He just stared.

The Hollow didn’t speak. It didn’t need to.

It showed.

And Oscar remembered.

The fog thickened, swallowing the others from view. Oscar stood alone.

The ground beneath him shimmered, then shifted—becoming sterile tile, cracked and bloodstained. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they were struggling to stay alive. The air reeked of antiseptic and something sour. Familiar.

He was back.

The lab.

But not as it was.

This version was twisted—walls too close, ceiling too low, everything warped like a memory decaying. The cages were still there. Small. Cruel. Empty.

Except one.

Rose.

She was curled inside, knees pulled to her chest, eyes wide and hollow. Her hair was matted, her skin bruised. She looked up at him, but didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared.

“Oscar,” she whispered, voice cracking like glass. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

He staggered forward. “I—I tried. I didn’t know—”

The Hollow didn’t let him finish.

Another voice cut through the air. Cold. Clinical.

“You were there,” said the reflection of Dr. Alstone, stepping from the shadows. “You saw the files. You knew what they were doing. And you waited.”

Oscar shook his head. “I didn’t understand. I didn’t—”

“You hesitated.”

The lights flared. The cages multiplied. Children filled them—dozens of them—faces blurred, but their cries sharp. Each one reaching for him. Each one calling his name.

He turned to Rose.

She was gone.

In her place was a mirror.

And in the mirror—

Oscar saw himself.

Not the man he’d become.

But the boy who had looked away.

The boy who had told himself it wasn’t his responsibility.

The boy who had chosen silence.

The mirror cracked.

Then shattered.

And Oscar fell to his knees.

The Hollow didn’t scream. It didn’t rage.

It just reflected.

And Oscar finally saw the truth:

He hadn’t failed because he was weak.

He had failed because he had waited.

Oscar’s breath came in short, ragged bursts.

The mirror shattered, but the reflections didn’t stop. They spilled across the floor like liquid memory—Rose’s face, bruised and silent; the children crying his name; the cold voice of Halden echoing through the walls.

“You waited,” the Hollow whispered, voice now soft. “Not because you were afraid.”

Oscar clutched his head, eyes wide, heart pounding. “Stop—please, stop—”

“You waited,” it repeated, “because you loved her.”

The fog twisted tighter around him, pressing against his chest like a vice. The lab blurred, then sharpened again—Rose in the cage, reaching for him, her eyes pleading.

“You couldn’t bear to see her broken,” the Hollow said. “So you looked away. You told yourself it wasn’t your place. You told yourself she’d be fine.”

Oscar staggered back, hands trembling. “I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know how to help—”

“You didn’t fail because you were weak,” the Hollow hissed. “You failed because you loved her more than you trusted yourself.”

The words hit like a blade.

Oscar collapsed to his knees, gasping, the weight of it all crashing down. The guilt. The grief. The unbearable truth.

But then—

He saw her.

Not the reflection.

Not the cage.

Her.

Rose, as she was now. Strong. Fierce. Alive.

The fire in her eyes. The way she stood between danger and the team. The way she never flinched.

And he remembered.

He hadn’t saved her then.

But he would now.

Oscar’s breath steadied. His hands stopped shaking. He rose slowly, eyes locked on the shattered mirror, heart pounding with clarity.

“I love her,” he whispered. “And I won’t fail her again.”

The fog recoiled.

The lab dissolved.

And Oscar stepped forward, back into the Hollow’s path.

Changed.

Rose stood alone in the thinning fog.

Her arms were crossed tightly, not from cold, but from the ache of waiting. The Hollow had released her first—too soon, maybe. She’d stumbled out gasping, heart pounding, unsure if the others would follow.

But the mist stayed quiet.

Until Oscar stepped through.

His silhouette broke the veil slowly, like the fog was reluctant to let him go. His eyes were distant at first, still caught in whatever the Hollow had shown him. But when he saw Rose—really saw her—something shifted.

His expression softened.

And then his gaze lingered.

Not with fear. Not with confusion.

With love.

Unfiltered. Unintended. But clear as day.

Rose blinked, caught off guard. Her breath hitched, and she looked away too fast, heat blooming across her cheeks. “You—” she started, but the words tangled.

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything,” she said quickly, voice too high. “It’s fine.”

But her fingers were trembling.

Oscar stepped closer, hesitating. “You okay?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know. I thought the others would be out by now.”

They turned together toward the fog.

Still thick. Still silent.

No Sakura. No Mahou. No Everest. No Eustace.

And Sage—still in wolf form—was barely visible, crouched low in the mist like a statue carved from shadow.

Rose’s voice dropped. “He hasn’t moved.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “He’s still in it.”

The fog around Sage pulsed once, then again—like a heartbeat.

Rose stepped forward instinctively, but Oscar caught her wrist. “Wait. Look.”

The mist curled tighter around Sage, wrapping him in memory.

And the Hollow began to show him what it remembered.