Fog. It always dwells in the worlds of dead minds. It hangs over the city like a dirty sheet soaked in smoke and ash. The town itself is blurred and half-erased, as if someone clumsy tried to clean it but only smeared it across reality. The streets drown in non-Euclidean geometry, dissolving into a gray infinity where there is neither beginning nor end. This, too, is a sign of a dying brain, maddened by its own demise.

And somewhere in this haze, high above the ground, towers a cathedral. An impossible cathedral. Its spires soar into the heavens, resembling needles that stitch the fabric of existence. I stand in the heart of the nave, and the darkness, like the underside of a cloud, permeate the depths. The stone arches twist into spirals, columns collapse at impossible angles, and stained-glass windows fold and unfold like giant origami of ghostly light. The cathedral vaults creak and tremble like the ancient bones of an old world. Here, space bends like paper under fire, and time flows like thick syrup.

My coat, soaked with dampness and sorrow, hangs off my shoulders like the wings of a raven. I pull on my cigarette, and the smoke I let out blends into the fog creeping through the gaps in the walls. My eyes glide over the frescoes depicting scenes from someone’s nightmares.

I sensed them before I heard them - a thin trembling of space. The walls stirred, and figures emerged from the shadows. They were barely discernible, like vague memories, but I knew who they were - psi-hunters. Mercenaries who had broken through from the collective unconscious to stop me. Criminals bring their solutions from the real world into this one. They think a crowbar to the head works the same way here as it does out there. And that makes them right. Their faces are empty, their bodies clad in Victorian suits and top hats. Our unconscious is always archaic.

“Paranoia! As if things weren’t bad enough without you,” my voice, low and hoarse, echoes beneath the vaults.

The first hunter steps forward, his form beginning to shift as if made of liquid metal. His hands turn into blades, his face elongates into a sharp spike. I don’t flinch. I know that in this place, everything is an illusion. Even myself.

“Ladies inviting a gentleman to dance?” I spit out the cigarette. “Let’s dance.”

The hunters lunge forward, their forms shifting and flowing like a painting on a wet canvas. I draw my revolvers. The cold steel comes alive in my hands. A shot. Another. Another, another, anotheranotheranother... I shoot, my arms moving in wide arcs, leaving behind afterimages—phantom copies, each firing as well. I reload while my illusory hands keep working. Bullets tear through the air, spirals of smoke trailing behind them. The thousand-armed Buddha generously grants nirvana.

The hunters shatter into fragments that pool on the floor like ink from a mad writer’s quill, scribbling in mercury. Space itself tears from the bullets, inviting the dead mist to witness this shooting gallery of damned bastards. I move, spinning through the cathedral, sending enemies to the other side. This place is just right for that sort of thing.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"It’s a piece of cake," I mumble under my breath, but my voice gets swallowed up by a thunderous roar bouncing off the cathedral walls.

A nine-foot hunter appears suddenly, as if casted out of a crack in the collective unconscious. A true outcast of society. His figure is massive, but not crude - rather, it looks like something sculpted from marble, yet alive, moving with unnatural grace. With an ego like his, he should have a face, but it’s hidden under a black sack, resembling both an executioner’s cowl and a condemned man’s hood. He is unlike the others. He is... more. Not just physically. His presence weighs down, as if he is the center of gravity in this warped reality.

“Agnosia! Now that’s an ego,” I mutter, feeling my revolvers grow heavier in my hands. “Pure hypercompensation.”

The brute steps forward, and the floor buckles under his feet, as if space itself can’t bear the weight of his self-importance. His hands, which seemed merely enormous before, begin transforming into blades. But that isn’t enough - small spikes start growing from his shoulders, long and sharp like daggers forged from resentment.

“Ever heard of weight classes?” I say, but this time there’s less bravado in my voice.

He doesn’t respond. He just moves, and his speed is incredible for something his size. I fire, but the bullets that tore psi-hunters to pieces merely glance off him, leaving shallow dents.

I retreat, searching for cover, but the cathedral, which had been my battlefield, now feels like a trap. The walls close in, and the floor begins to collapse, as if space itself is trying to help him.

He strikes. A blade-hand slices through the air so fast I barely see it move. I try to dodge, but he’s too quick. A sharp pain lances through my side, and I feel my body crack like a mirror. There will be a psi-scar. And that was just a glancing blow.

“Catatonia!” I gasp, dropping to my knees.

He raises his arm, the blade extending, ready to deliver the final strike. I twist my wrists and empty two full cylinders of bullets - and their echoes - into his head.

The brute falls, bringing the entire space down with him. The cathedral walls groan as if invisible hands are tearing them apart from within. But the sound is strange - not like stone should sound. It’s more like the creak of an old bed or the muffled moan seeping from behind a closed door. The stone slabs beneath me collapse, turning into a vortex pulling me downward. My fingers scrape against the wet stone, leaving behind streaks like bloody signatures.

I am falling, but it’s not just a fall. It’s a descent through layers of something ancient, forgotten - like the dream of a half-bald ape desperately clutching a crudely whittled stick, watching a shaggy titan. Or the consciousness of that titan, fleeing those half-bald apes with pain and fire, into its own grave. Strange faces flicker around me - unfamiliar yet eerily known, landscapes both new and nostalgic. And somewhere in this slurry of light and darkness, I hear a voice. Slow, thick, muffled, as if rising from a well of damned souls who don’t particularly mind each other’s company.

“Recipient stabilized. Donor still in critical condition. Session terminated. Recovery progress: 84%.”

My hands tremble slightly. The revolver, which had felt like an extension of myself, suddenly grows heavy, as if filled not with metal but with memories - alien, yet familiar. I lower my gaze to the barrel, and in its smooth surface, I see a room. White. Sterile. I look up again and see that I stand on the edge of something vast, infinite. It’s not just a precipice - it’s the boundary between worlds. I turn around and see a figure behind me.

Tall, hunched, its outline blurred as if made of fog. A man in white. His countenance is obscured by darkness, yet I can sense his eyes upon me. No, not at me. Into me. In his hand, he holds an object - something like a key.

“This is your chance,” the figure says, offering the key.