Chapter 1 – Error Code 1037

Blake hunched over the workbench, the scent of oil and metal thick in the air, his hands shaky as he tightened the final bolt on his latest creation. This was supposed to be the one—the lawn mower upgrade that would finally prove he wasn’t just the guy who couldn’t finish anything. The new, quieter motor and self-adjusting blades were supposed to revolutionize the industry, or at the very least, make him something other than the guy who couldn’t get anything right. But as he twisted the wrench, his fingers trembled. This was supposed to be it. The one that worked.

His hands were stiff from working all night, and exhaustion clouded his mind. Every failed invention had led him here, to this single, fleeting moment of hope. This had to be the one. It had to work. Otherwise, what was the point of everything? This would be the invention that would prove his worth.

A soft ding pulled Blake’s attention to his phone, breaking his focus. Expecting another useless notification, he swiped it away. But the screen flashed with an unknown number instead.

Blake frowned at the screen. Unknown number. Probably a telemarketer, or worse—another scam call. He swiped it away, but it rang again, persistent and impatient.

“Come on, I don’t have time for this...” he muttered, swiping the phone off the bench and answering it with a snap. “Yeah?”

At first, the voice was sweet, like a child trying to encourage him. 'Wow, Blake, this is big! You're really going for it this time, huh?' But as the words sunk in, the edges of the voice sharpened, a sneer slipping into its cadence. 'Sure, you are. You always think this time is different, don’t you? Like all the other times it’ll finally work... until it doesn’t.'"

Blake blinked in disbelief. “What? Who is this?”

"This is your personal assistant!” the voice chirped, overly cheerful at first, before a sharp edge slipped into its tone. “Oh, I’m sure this will work... Just like all the other times, right? You know, the one who’s going to keep you on track. Maybe even make you a little less of a failure.” It was like the pitch dropped a few octaves, giving it a menacing edge. “Is that okay with you?”

Blake rubbed his temples, a headache gnawing at the edges of his mind. The air felt thick, almost crackling with energy, as if the atmosphere itself had turned into static. His fingertips tingled—an electric hum under his skin that made his stomach churn. What the hell was happening to him?

The voice shifted again, this time to something uncomfortably casual. “Blake, Blake... You really think this mower’s going to work? Are you sure? Because it’s probably just like all your other ideas, isn’t it? You know, just another failure.” There was an almost mocking edge to it now. “I mean, who could blame you? You're doing everything exactly the same, expecting a different result. Classic Blake.”

Blake slammed the phone back down on the workbench in frustration. "I don't need this, okay? Leave me alone!" He was so close. He didn’t have time for interruptions.

But just as he turned back to the mower, the phone buzzed again, louder this time.

“Blake! Blake! You don’t really think you’re going to make anything work, do you? Everything you’ve ever done has fallen flat!” the voice screamed through the phone, now unusually shrill. “Honestly, I don’t know why you even bother trying. You’ve always been pathetic.” Blake’s face reddened, a flash of anger coursing through him. “I said leave me alone!” he snapped, ending the call again and slamming the phone face down on the workbench.

He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to force his mind back onto the mower. This time, he was going to make it work. No more distractions.

But once again, the phone rang. It was relentless.

“Blake, Blake! Seriously? Still ignoring me?” the voice was sharp again, dripping with sarcasm. “Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t want to hear the truth. You’re busy doing your mower thing... because that’s going to fix everything, right? Maybe you should call up your mom and ask for help, huh? Maybe she can finally do something for you.” Blake froze, a tight knot forming in his stomach. “What did you just say?”

The voice shifted, now higher-pitched, almost sing-songy. “Oh, Blake, you know it’s true. What does your mom think of all this? Still living with her? Still doing your little inventions in her garage? It's like a never-ending failure parade. Maybe you should've stayed in school... but then, what was it you did? Quit over some girl?” The last word was dripping with venom.

Blake’s stomach churned. He turned toward the door of the garage, but before he could move, she appeared. The door creaked open.

“Blake! What on earth is all this noise?” his mother’s voice cut through the silence. “It’s late! Go to bed, stop making so much racket in here!” Blake felt his chest tighten. He turned, but his mother was already standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl on her face.

“You know, you’ve been doing this for years, Blake,” she continued, her tone sharp. “And everything you make ends up just like you—a failure. Maybe you should’ve thought about your future before you quit school over some girl. Look at you now—still here, tinkering away in this garage like you’re going to change the world. But guess what? You’re not. Now, go to bed. You’re making too much noise.”

Blake’s face burned. He was so close, but the weight of her words, the endless failure that seemed to hang over him, was suffocating. But tonight, he wasn’t going to let it break him. Not this time. He couldn’t afford to quit—not again, not after all the years of disappointment.

“I’m not done yet,” he muttered under his breath.

The phone rang again. “Blake, you’re still at it? Still trying to fix all your failures?” the Voice came through loud and clear, mocking and shrill. “Guess what, buddy? You can’t fix everything. You can’t fix yourself.”

Then, the air itself vibrated with a low hum. It wasn’t the phone this time—it was something else. Something deeper, something wrong. Blake froze, his hand still gripping the phone, but everything around him had suddenly shifted. His bones vibrated. His vision blurred, colors and shapes dancing erratically, as if his eyes couldn’t focus. The air felt thick, like something was pressing down on him.

"Blake! I told you! You can't fix yourself!" The Voice rang out, high-pitched and manic—like it was savoring every word. "You’re nothing! You’ll always be nothing!"

Blake tried to scream, but no sound came. The air thickened again, and suddenly his body was flooded with pain—a violent, sharp tearing sensation that ripped through every fiber of his being. His stomach churned as if his insides were being shredded apart, and yet, his mind stayed strangely alert, aware of every excruciating moment. His hands twisted in strange directions, his limbs contorting unnaturally, as though they were being pulled and twisted into new, unrecognizable shapes. His chest felt as though it were being pried open, his ribs stretching and cracking with sickening force.

He gasped for air, but it was as though his lungs no longer functioned properly—he couldn’t inhale, couldn’t exhale. His skin was pulled tight, his muscles stretched beyond their limits, as though they were being remade—reprogrammed, torn down, and rebuilt from the inside out. His body was being torn apart, piece by piece, his very essence being reshaped.

The world around him distorted into a blur, and then everything snapped into darkness. It felt like the very fabric of his reality was unraveling.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Absolute silence. Not a sound. Not a feeling. Only a cold, infinite emptiness stretching out in all directions, swallowing Blake’s sense of time and self.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Blake awoke, disoriented. His body was whole again, but something felt off. His senses flickered back on, one by one—vision, touch, sound—yet his body still felt foreign. He moved his fingers, testing the flexibility of his joints. His hands felt too soft, too light—like they were made of something else. He flexed his toes. Were they still his toes? Then the pain returned, worse than before. His body was being pulled apart again—bone, muscle, and sinew distorting and stretching like putty in the hands of an invisible force. His spine cracked and popped as though it were bending in on itself, and his face twisted into a grotesque mockery of his own features. He wanted to scream, but the sound never left his throat.

His body was no longer his own. Every sinew, every bone, felt as if it were being peeled apart and stretched, only to be woven back together in a grotesque, alien pattern. He felt the skin pulling tight over new, unfamiliar muscle groups, every nerve alight with a raw, unnatural energy. It was as though he were being shaped—a mold poured over a body that didn’t fit. This wasn’t just pain. It was disintegration and reformation. His consciousness stayed sharp, every moment dragging out as his physical form was restructured, re-engineered by forces far beyond his control. It was as though he was being broken down and reassembled—integrating with a system he couldn’t comprehend.

[System Error: Integration Process Incomplete]

[Error Code: 0137]

[System Recalibration Required]

[Reverting to Previous State...]

Then—blackness. Total, absolute darkness.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

More silence.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Blake's vision blurred, and the world around him seemed to flicker, as if his senses were being overloaded with fragmented data. He felt himself being torn apart again, but this time it was different—less precise, more erratic. It was as though his body was caught between two states, unable to stabilize, as if the system couldn’t decide how to integrate him properly.

The familiar pain returned, but it was jagged, disjointed. Instead of smooth, methodical reforming, he felt his body stuttering like a faulty machine, freezing at random intervals and then jerking violently. His limbs felt like they were both there and not there, as if they were stretching in one direction while being pulled in another. His spine wrenched with a sickening crack, but instead of the sharpness of transformation, it was more like a desperate, futile attempt to reset.

[System Error: Transformation Incomplete]

[Error Code: 0137—System Timeout]

[Reverting to Safe Mode... Temporary Deactivation]

Blake gasped, but the air felt thin, and his breaths were shallow, strained. His senses flickered again. He couldn’t tell if the images flashing before his eyes were real or part of the system’s malfunction.

The Voice—suddenly distorted—boomed in his head, twisted with static and garbled code, like some corrupted file trying to communicate. "What’s the matter, Blake? You don’t look so... solid anymore. Is this what you wanted? To be a mess of circuits and flesh? Oh wait, that’s my mistake, isn't it?"

Blake’s head spun, and he fought to hold onto his thoughts, his sense of self. It was like trying to keep his footing on a shifting, crumbling foundation. He gripped his head in his hands, trying to steady himself, but it felt like his thoughts were slipping through his fingers, like sand in an hourglass.

[Warning: System Integrity Loss Detected]

[Initiating Emergency Protocol]

[Reverting... Please Stand By]

Blake clenched his jaw, struggling to make sense of the spiraling chaos. "This... can’t... this can’t be happening," he muttered through clenched teeth.

The world felt like it was stuttering around him—blurred and out of sync. He saw pieces of his memories flash in and out, distorted, like someone trying to open a broken file. The flashes grew faster, blurring together until everything was just a mass of colors and shapes. Nothing felt real.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

His limbs jerked again, no longer responding to his will, but instead following some erratic, corrupted programming. They moved unnaturally, jerking in different directions as if struggling to keep up with the fragmented process. Each movement felt disconnected from him—like a puppet’s limbs controlled by a malfunctioning operator.

The Voice returned, but now it was distorted, like it was being filtered through a broken speaker, the sarcasm and mockery still cutting through the chaos. "Oh, poor Blake. Do you even know what you are anymore? Can you feel it? You’re slipping through the cracks. You’re nothing but code and meat, scrambled up into a mess of nothingness. How’s that feel? Comfortable? Huh?"

His body twisted again, an involuntary spasm as his skin stretched in unnatural directions, followed by the excruciating sensation of it trying to revert. Then, the world went dark.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Blake existed.

Everything was so still. Was he awake? Was any of this real? He could still feel the sharp sting of his muscles being torn apart—yet there was no sensation beyond that. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. His lips didn’t even move. Was this what it felt like to slip into madness? Or was he... already gone?

And then, a voice—not the Voice, but something cold, detached, methodical.

“Subject: Blake Morgan.” The voice was detached, clinical, as though reading off a sterile checklist. “Integration complete. Initiating post-integration assessment. Designation: Unit 7432X.”

Blake’s mind scrambled to make sense of the absurdity of it all. He wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming or if he had somehow slipped into madness.

“What the hell is going on?” His voice trembled, cracking slightly as confusion set in. “That... it wasn’t real, right? I mean, that was some kind of nightmare...”

The voice didn’t pause. It didn’t acknowledge his confusion or fear. It simply moved forward, as if its programming was set on an unalterable path.

“Assessment question one: Do you recognize your designation: Blake Morgan?”

Blake’s thoughts scrambled. “Yeah, I know who I am! What the hell is all this? Where am I? What’s happening to me?” Panic clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to focus. The voice, methodical and impassive, was only adding to his disorientation. It was like trying to communicate with a machine that didn’t care if he was in distress.

“Do you recognize your designation, Blake Morgan?” The voice repeated, almost too perfectly.

“I told you, yes!” Blake snapped, his frustration rising. “I’m Blake Morgan! I’m real! You can’t just... you can’t just mess with my head like this!” He fought against the mounting sense of helplessness, trying to ground himself in something familiar. But nothing was familiar. Not his body, not his surroundings, not even his own thoughts.

“Designation confirmed: Blake Morgan.” The voice remained cold and indifferent. “Assessment question two: Describe your physical state and sensory experience.”

Blake blinked, or at least he thought he should have. But his eyes didn’t feel like they were working properly. There was a sense of detachment, as if his senses were operating on some kind of delay. His fingers twitched slightly, but when he focused on them, they didn’t look right—pale, almost translucent, like they were only partially there.

“Physical state?” Blake’s voice was faint, unsure. “I don’t know... something’s wrong. I don’t feel... like myself. I feel like I’m—” His words faltered, and he cut himself off, his mouth dry. What was happening to him? How could he describe something he didn’t even understand?

He tried to steady his limbs, but his arms didn’t obey him. They rose, but it was jerky, awkward, as if something was fighting against him. His body... no, it wasn’t his body. It felt wrong.

Blake took a deep breath and forced his thoughts to stay focused, even as his frustration began to boil over. “Wait, what the hell are you talking about? I’m not in some damn computer. I’m not some lab rat—” His voice trailed off. The realization gnawed at him, but he refused to accept it. He couldn’t accept it.

“I’m not some experiment,” he muttered under his breath, trying to steady his shaking hands. “This isn’t real. This is just—just a malfunction, that’s all. A system glitch.”

[System Error Detected: Integration Sequence Out of Sync]

The brief flash of an error message flickered in his mind, but Blake pushed it aside, locking it away before he could fully process it. Don’t let it distract you. Don’t let it become real.

“Cognitive impairment detected,” came the voice, its tone as clinical as ever, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. “Please refrain from further emotional outbursts.”

"Emotional outbursts?" He growled, his voice shaky but sharp. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that? You don’t get to tell me how to feel!” His hands balled into fists, his body trembling with the effort to keep his emotions under control. But the anger that had once felt like a shield now felt like a broken weapon, shattering against the cold, unfeeling presence of Unit 7432X.

Blake squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the voice, the malfunction, everything that threatened to pull him apart. He could feel himself slipping—but no, he wasn’t going to let it happen. He had control. He had to.

But the error message kept flickering at the edge of his awareness, threatening to break through.

[System anomaly detected. Please acknowledge error.]

It was barely a whisper in the background, something Blake instinctively shut out.

“Do you recognize your designation, Blake Morgan?” Unit 7432X repeated, as if Blake hadn’t just exploded in frustration, as if the system wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

His heart pounded. He couldn’t let the system win. He couldn’t let the truth—whatever it was—take him under.

Blake clenched his jaw, pressing his palms against his face, feeling the cold, unfamiliar touch of his own skin. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “I’m Blake Morgan. And this—this is just a glitch.”

Blake’s mind swam as he tried to grasp what had just happened. “What... what did you do to me?” His voice came out low and flat, as if he were speaking from miles away, disconnected from his own body. Something about his words felt off—echoed, distorted, like they weren’t quite his own.

Unit 7432X’s voice was relentless in its monotony. “Analysis of emotional response: excessive. Emotional suppression initiated. Assessment question three. Do you understand your surroundings? Please describe them in detail.”

Blake’s thoughts raced, but they were fragmented, like broken pieces of a shattered puzzle. The emptiness pressed in on him. Was something wrong with his perception? The question hung in the air, demanding an answer, yet there was no frame of reference, no solid ground beneath him.

The nothingness was overwhelming. He couldn’t see anything—there were no walls, no floor, no sky. It wasn’t even dark; it was just... absent. A featureless void, but there was an undeniable weight to it, something pressing down on his mind, a discomfort in his very thoughts. As if the world around him... or whatever this was, wasn’t real.

“Describe your surroundings in detail.” The voice repeated, unaffected, insistent.

Blake’s mind staggered under the pressure. The words nothingness and space felt wrong on his tongue, but there was no other description. His thoughts scrambled, but they didn't quite fit together. Was that a glitch? Did he imagine it, or was something slipping out of place? The very act of speaking felt disjointed, as if his voice wasn’t quite in sync with his intentions.

“Empty,” Blake finally responded. “It’s... empty. I don’t see anything. No walls, no sky... nothing. Just... just space. Like I’m floating in nothingness. I can't even feel anything... not even myself.”

He paused, disoriented, as his words echoed back in his mind in a way that felt wrong—too hollow, too distant. He shifted his attention, but his senses failed him. Something was interfering, something hidden. Was this part of the trial, or was it something more? Was it the system itself, glitching under the pressure?

"Nothing but... empty space. Or maybe... just nothing at all." His voice was barely a whisper now, trembling with unease. “What is this? What the hell is happening to me?”

Unit 7432X’s response was flat, clinical, but there was an edge to it this time, almost as if it had paused before continuing. "Inadequate description. Your response does not meet the required standards of detail. Attempt with greater specificity."

Blake's heart pounded in his chest. There was something else there—a hesitation. Or was he just losing his grip on reality? The voice pressed on, merciless and cold.

"Assessment question four," Unit 7432X continued, unperturbed. "Mental acuity test will now begin. Please solve the following sequence. Focus and provide your answer with precision."

A sequence of abstract symbols flashed before him, too fast, too flickering, like they weren’t meant to be seen all at once. But as he tried to focus on them, something shifted—one of the symbols blurred unnaturally, like a glitch in the system.

The symbols weren’t words or images. They twisted, stretched—alive but... wrong. They seemed to break free of their design. Blake’s mind buzzed, a rising panic gripping his chest. Was this a test, or was the system malfunctioning?

"Identify the correct pattern. Sequence:"

∆, ∇, ◉, ?

X, O, X, O, ?

* , ¶, ♠, ?

The symbols flickered, distorting like a broken screen. The edges wavered, sending strange static-like sensations crawling through Blake’s mind. Something was off. Was it him, or was the system glitching again?

His pulse quickened as his mind scrambled to focus. The sequence made no sense. The symbols twisted, and for a moment, they seemed to flicker back into something coherent—just for a split second. But it was gone, like an image slipping out of focus. Something was wrong with the data.

Blake took a deep breath. “∆, ∇, ◉, square... I guess?”

"Incorrect response," came the robotic reply. "Mental acuity test complete. Minimum threshold not met. Question five: Describe the last known event in your life prior to integration."

Blake's mind reeled. The disjointed symbols, the unsettling glitches, the echoing emptiness—it all blurred together. His thoughts were struggling, but a sharp memory clawed at him through the fog.

“The mower,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was in my garage... trying to finish my invention. My mom was yelling at me, the Voice... and then everything went black.”

There was a pause. It lasted too long, as if the system was assessing him—or... assessing something else. He couldn’t tell anymore.

"Affirmative," Unit 7432X responded, the delay almost imperceptible.

"Assessment complete," it announced, its tone flat and emotionless. "Proceed to trials."

Blake’s heart hammered. There was no escaping this. The oppressive void, the malfunctioning sequences, the faint glitches in the system—it was all unraveling, and he couldn’t get a hold of anything.

The nothingness was gone. But Blake wasn’t sure if he had been freed—or if he had simply fallen deeper into the glitch.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

“Rise and shine, sunshine!” The Voice cut through the void, sharp and mocking. “Did you miss me? Because I’ve been having so much fun while you were out.”

Blake flinched, his senses raw and sluggish. The voice, shrill and grating, drilled into his skull, dragging him into awareness.

“What the fuck—” he rasped, his voice scraping like sandpaper. “Who the hell are you? What’s happening? Where am I?”

“Oh, relax,” the Voice chimed, its tone saccharine and cruel. “You’re still here. Lucky for me, too—because this place would be so boring without you.”

Blake blinked into the nothingness around him, trying to process the jarring shift. The sterile void had dissolved into a swirling haze, a disorienting mess of color and shadow that seemed to press in from all sides.

“Why can’t I feel anything?” he demanded, frustration bleeding into his tone. “What’s wrong with me? And who are you supposed to be?”

“Oh, I’m the best part,” the voice said with theatrical delight. “Call me E.L.M.O. That’s Egregiously Loud Malevolent Overlord. Or, you know, just Elmo for short. Either way, I’m here to make your life... interesting.”

Blake’s brow furrowed as anger flared. “You’re fucking joking.”

Elmo gasped, feigning offense. “Joking?! Blake, I’d never! I take my job very seriously. And right now, my job is... you. Congratulations!”

“Fuck you,” Blake spat. “I don’t need some glorified cartoon harassing me. Answer my damn questions. What the hell is going on? Why don’t I feel anything? What’s this crap about recycling?”

Elmo giggled, a high-pitched, grating sound that set Blake’s teeth on edge. “Oh, you’re just adorable when you’re angry. Let’s see... where should I start? Oh, wait—I won’t! You’re on a need-to-know basis, sweetheart, and right now, you don’t need to know shit.”

Blake’s fists curled—or at least he thought they did. “You’re seriously just here to fuck with me, aren’t you?”

Elmo’s voice dipped into a mock-sympathetic tone. “Oh, Blakey-boy, don’t sell me short! I’m here to guide you. Enlighten you. Maybe even break you, if you’re lucky. But mostly? Yeah, I’m here to mess with you. And I gotta say, I’m nailing it so far.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by ‘break me’? What’s happening to me? Why does everything feel so... wrong?”

There was a slight flicker in the void—just a crack in the perfect illusion, a tiny glitch in the endless landscape of nothingness. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. E.L.M.O. noticed it too, his voice stuttering ever so slightly for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into its mocking cheerfulness.

“Well, we’re going to have to save some of that fun for later, huh?” Elmo chirped, as though nothing had happened. “Spoiler alert! The ‘wrong’ thing you’re feeling? That’s your whole new existence right now! Welcome to the game, sweetie. Where you don’t get to feel anything but confusion and frustration. How’s that working out for you?”

Blake’s eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the haze, but it only deepened his disorientation. “What’s going on here? Why do I feel like I'm not... real? Like I'm stuck inside a glitch?”

There was another faint flicker in the space around him—like a brief, jagged pulse in the void. For just a heartbeat, the void seemed to glitch, shimmering like a bad TV signal, but Elmo’s voice was already ahead of it, covering up the disturbance.

“Glitch? Oh, that’s cute,” Elmo's voice was syrupy sweet, masking a dark undertone. ‘Sweetie, what you’re feeling? That’s just the system adjusting you... reprogramming you. Consider it a... refinement process. It’ll pass. Eventually. Or not. Who knows? I’m certainly not going to spoil it. Just... sit tight. I’ve got plenty of surprises left to keep you on your toes.”

Blake’s frustration was boiling over. “You think this is a joke?’ Blake’s voice cracked with disbelief. ‘You think I’m just going to sit here and let you tear me apart? Tell me what’s going on—now!”

Elmo’s voice took on a falsely comforting tone. “Blakey-boy, calm down. It’s not all that bad. I mean, sure, you might feel like you’re falling apart—your body might not even be your own anymore—but hey! That’s the fun part, right? I mean, you get to find out what’s going on piece by piece. It’s like a puzzle—except, I’ll let you in on a little secret: you don’t get the answer key.”

Blake’s breath quickened. “Who are you really? What do you want from me?”

Elmo’s laughter trilled through the void, a sharp, mocking sound. “Oh, Blakey, what I want from you? That’s easy! I want to see how far you’ll bend before you break. I want to see just how deep you’ll dig to try and understand what’s going on. And, most of all? I want you to dance to my tune. Because you don’t get to call the shots here.”

Blake ground his teeth, unable to fight back the rising tide of anger. He wanted answers, wanted to escape this madness, but the suffocating pressure of uncertainty held him in place. “Blake’s fists clenched tighter, his nails digging into his palms. ‘You’re insane. You think you can break me? If I get out of this, I’m going to find a way to make you pay. I swear to God.”

Elmo giggled again, but this time there was a flicker of something darker behind his tone. “Oh, Blake. You think you’re in control? That’s adorable. But listen up—this little glitch you’re feeling? It’s not just part of the process, it’s the game. And in this game? You have no idea what’s coming next. So buckle up, cupcake. The fun’s just getting started.”

The air around Blake began to swirl, a violent vortex of light and shadow tearing at the fabric of his reality. His body trembled as if the very atoms of his being were being torn apart and reassembled, each moment stretching and snapping like a rubber band at its breaking point. Sucking him into a vortex of light and shadow. Elmo’s laughter rang in his ears, gleeful and unrelenting, as the chaos swallowed him whole. The last thing Blake heard was Elmo’s voice, just before everything blurred into oblivion:

“You’ll never know what hit you,” Elmo purred, the malice in his tone palpable, like cold steel against Blake’s skin.