"What?!"

Vahari exhaled sharply, tilting her head. "You weren't listening? He's dead." She repeated in a matter-of-fact way.

Amara felt her stomach twist. A cold weight settled in her chest.

"But… the medical team—" Her voice wavered. "I thought they were going to resuscitate him. You said he wasn't dead—"

"I said he wasn't dead yet," Vahari cut in, her words precise. Her gaze flickered for a moment.

"And that's not what happened to him."

A beat of silence. Then she added, "He got caught up in an Abyssal Zone."

Amara's breath hitched. "An…Abyssal Zone?"

Vahari studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Right, you wouldn't know." She folded her arms, expression unreadable. "They're like Marauders—spontaneous, unpredictable—but much rarer. One second, everything's normal, and the next…" She snapped her fingers. "The world caves in. Space twists, folds and swallows whatever was there, leaving behind a black, void-like mass. If you're caught inside, that's it."

Amara felt her pulse hammer inside her ribs. "Really…that's it?" She shook her head. "People have made it out before, right?"

Vahari didn't answer immediately. "The Zones distort space itself in order to manifest and they are measured by how much they warp space, which is quantified using Echo Levels. The only people who manage to escape the Abyssal Zones are those who manifest the tattoos that you and I have—and become Revenants."

For a second, Amara felt the sensation of relief wash over her, cleansing a bit of uneasiness off her. "That means there is a chance he can make it!"

Vahari's silence was worse than an outright no.

"He can make it right? Why aren't you say—"

"Echo level Zero." Vahari cut in, her voice flat.

Amari blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Most escapees emerged from Echo Level Three zones and only a select few, like myself, escaped from Echo Level Two zones. And only one person in history has ever escaped from an Echo Level One."

Vahari took a beat to look up to the sky before continuing.

"Your hero got caught in an Echo Level Zero."

Amara swallowed hard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Up until now, it's been purely speculation and theoretical."

"Simply put. It shouldn't exist."

***

Rhys dreamt of a river that flowed almost endlessly, its waters thick and dark like ink.

It cascaded upward into a void concealed by a swirling grey mist, its depths stretching into an abyss that almost felt alive. And hungry.

A cacophony of voices rose from the river—lamenting and wailing—but he couldn't understand what they were saying, but the emotions permeated his skull, seeping into his bones

It started off as whispers, pleading and desperate. Then the whispers grew into cries of pain eventually turning into screams of rage. Louder. Louder.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The surface of the river rippled, trembling as something began stirring underneath.

That's when he felt it.

A presence that felt like it was everywhere and nowhere at the same time—watching him.

He didn't know where to look. Should he hide? But where could he hide to escape this being's gaze?

Then, as the voices continued growing louder, the river suddenly burst alive, its waves crashing violently towards Rhys. The currents picked him up and carried him upwards towards void.

And just as the abyss was about to consume him—

He woke up.

Rhys' eyes snapped open as he took a sharp breath, taking in the cold air.

His heart pounded. The remnants of his dream, no, his nightmare still clung to him. But as he felt the hard ground, reality quickly settled.

This is…reality, right?

The sky above him was a churning blend of violet and crimson. Twin suns hung suspended in the void, their unnatural hues bleeding into the world around him. The air itself was thick with color, almost like it carried weight to it.

Rhys inhaled sharply and tried to push himself up, his muscles sluggish and weak. Pain spiked through his ribs and due to his missing left arm, he lay awkwardly on his side.

He had forgotten but that was a sharp reminder of everything. That damn monster. And that girl, she better be alive.

"I'm never getting on a train again."

After struggling his way up, he finally began to take notice of his surroundings like they were hidden from him until now.

Rhys wasn't alone.

A few feet away from him, two bodies lay motionless.

They were dressed in paramedics' uniform but they no longer looked human. Their bodies had mutated into a sickly deep purple hue and tendrils seemed to be squirming around under their skin. Bones protruded from their collar bone and elbows and the nails had elongated into monstrous claws.

His breath caught in his throat.

Yeah, wasn't I just fighting for my life in the back of an ambulance? How did we end up here?

He turned behind him and that's when he saw it.

Obsidian spikes grew out the ground all around them, piercing the driver's head through the windscreen and impaling the ambulance. Another paramedic's body hung out the passenger window and crimson blood trickled down the spike. Both their bodies mutated in the same state.

Nausea rose up from Rhys's stomach and he retreated behind one the obsidian spikes to throw up.

F**k! Haven't I woken up from my nightmare yet? Yeah, it's definitely a dream. Otherwise, how could I have possibly survived this?

Rhys crouched as he fell deep in thought.

After thinking for some time, Rhys decided to move. He had no idea where he would go but it did not matter to him as long it was away from here.

He didn't know what had caused the paramedics to mutate like that but he sure as hell wasn't going to wait around to find out!

As he crouched beside the jagged, obsidian-like spike, he ran his fingers along its surface. Cold. Smooth. Unyielding. He pressed against it, testing its strength. It didn't budge.

He gritted his teeth.

A sharp weapon. That's what he needed. Something—anything—to protect himself. These spikes seemed perfect, but no matter how hard he struck with the metallic debris from the ambulance, they wouldn't break. Even rocks would crumble. These spikes were practically indestructible.

Rhys exhaled sharply, glancing around. There had to be a way.

Then his eyes landed on the bodies.

He had avoided looking too closely before. The twisted forms of the paramedics were grotesquely misshapen. But now, one detail stood out.

Their hands.

Or rather—their claws.

Long, curved, unnaturally sharp. Like the Reaper's.

Rhys' mind flashed back to the subway—the way the Reaper's claws sliced through steel like paper.

That was it.

He swallowed hard, pushing down the revulsion curling in his gut as he stepped toward one of the corpses. The thing that used to be a paramedic lay slumped against a half-buried structure, its arms stiff and contorted. Its fingers ended in claws that gleamed under the violet-crimson light.

Rhys hesitated.

Then he grabbed the arm and yanked.

Nothing.

He adjusted his grip, planting a foot against the body for leverage. With a sharp twist and a sickening crack, the arm snapped off.

Rhys clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore the sound, the texture, the way the limb still felt human in some places.

He turned back to the spike.

Lifting the severed arm, he brought the claws down against the obsidian.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then—a deep, clean slice.

Rhys exhaled, gripping the arm tighter. He struck again. And again until his arm was screaming in pain. The spike gave way.

With one final strike, a shard broke free, landing at his feet. Long, jagged, razor-sharp.

A weapon.

Rhys tossed the arm aside, picking up the shard. It was rough in some places, but the edge—deadly. He ran a thumb along it, feeling the sharpness bite at his skin.

It would do.

After using the spike to cut off the paramedic's claws, he rummaged through the ambulance wreckage and found a medical pouch and also took a pair of boots, a bloodied jacket and tactical gaiters from one of the bodies. Undressing the corpses almost recalled his nausea but he managed to keep it down.

With his preparations finished, he was set to leave.

He glanced back to make sure the bodies hadn't moved.

Good.

He pressed forward.