Darkness...

An intense sense of nebulous disassociation...

Suddenly, a blaring focal point of light!

The point slowly flattened and stretched, infinitely elongating across the dark horizon of nothingness. As the light expanded, it revealed a faint outline of a familiar yet forgotten place.

Emerson's eyes fluttered open, his bleary vision struggling to focus under the assault of a glaring, yellowish light. His mind lagged behind the sudden shift.

‘The hell?’

Reflexively, he raised a hand to shield his face, allowing his burning vision to adjust. As he took stock, he realized he was standing upright instead of lying down as he had initially assumed. An unusual ache in the back of his head extended down to his neck, reminiscent of the tension headaches he got after craning over a large textbook. Despite the strange feeling, his eyes finally adapted to his surroundings, and he lowered his hand, peering up with narrowed eyes. He was stunned into silence. The scene before him solidified, grounding him in a bizarre yet unmistakable sense of déjà vu.

“Whoa,” he breathed out. He was standing in the lunch line at his old high school cafeteria. Nostalgia hit him like a wave, bringing a rush of fragmented memories.

‘I’m dreaming?’ This lucid dream was the most vivid one yet. The cafeteria was filled with dark figures, all of identical height and monochromatic clothing.

He leaned in closer to examine one of them standing in front of him in line, trying to make sense of the eerie uniformity among the figures, each one a shadowy echo of his past.

‘Huh,’ he stepped back. He couldn’t tell what their clothes were made of or even what kind of clothing it was, but the mystery was simple enough: He hadn’t cared to notice back then, and he certainly didn’t care now. Yet, a nagging sense of unfamiliarity tugged at his consciousness, urging him to look closer.

That was when he noticed the familiar sounds of a cafeteria drifting through the air. The cacophony felt out of place in the eerily still environment.

Metallic and plastic utensils clattering… The sounds echoed strangely, as if bouncing off invisible walls.

Trays hitting and sliding across tables… Each thud seemed to reverberate through his chest.

Idle chatter, laughter, the occasional shout… The overlapping voices were oddly disembodied.

Shoes squeaking… Almost rhythmic in their irregularity.

He glanced around the large room and frowned. There was no discernible source of the noise; the shadowy figures all stood in their respective places around the cafeteria, either standing, sitting at a table, or waiting in line. None moved or interacted with anything. It was as if the entire scene was frozen in time, yet the sounds of life persisted.

‘Well, this is...’ Emerson had had some weird-ass dreams before, but this one certainly took the cake for—

The sensation of being watched crept over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He spun around and immediately found the culprit.

His mind froze. His muscles locked. His eyes couldn’t have gone any wider. A surge of scalding emotions crawled up his throat. Repressed memories struggled against the dam he’d painstakingly built over the years.

The walk from the campus library...

Stupid conversations about everything and nothing...

The cool night air...

The stoplight...

The crosswalk...

Tires screeching!

‘NO,’ Emerson shut his eyes and ruthlessly pushed away those memories like the plague. He forced himself to focus on the present, grounding his thoughts with deep breaths. Finally, he exhaled in a rush. It helped. Or at least it felt like it did.

"Em!" came a shout that felt like home, a shout that made it seem like everything was right with the world again. It made Emerson sick. He opened his eyes. It was his best friend, grinning brightly as he confidently walked through a group of amorphous silhouettes sporting the long-forgotten faces of classmates. Their incorporeal figures dissipated like mist as he passed through them to wrap a still-stunned Emerson in a big bear hug.

The warmth of the hug contrasted sharply with the cold dread in Emerson's chest.

"It's been too long—how have you been? Let me take a look at you," Aiden said, holding Emerson out at arm's length and making a comedic show of critically examining him from head to toe. He looked just as Emerson remembered: average height, short, wavy brown hair, and kind hazel eyes. He wore what he always wore—a black hoodie and navy jeans, with a clean pair of plain white sneakers.

Emerson tried to smile, but the effort felt hollow, his mind racing away from him.

"Man..." Aiden tsked, "you look like shit," he said, tilting his head as he stared Emerson down with eyebrows drawn together.

Emerson's mouth twitched, opening and closing as he struggled to piece together a single coherent thought. Aiden’s façade gradually cracked with every passing second until he finally couldn't contain himself. The corner of his mouth twitched, laugh lines creased his cheeks, and laughter danced behind his eyes. Finally, a complete, heartfelt smile broke out across his face as he good-naturedly smacked the outside of Emerson's biceps a few times before stepping back. Emerson didn’t know what to think. All he knew was the fierce war raging in his head, his emotions viciously fluctuating between rejecting or embracing this rare moment. He could treat it as a gift. Or a nightmare.

"It’s really good to see you again, Em," Aiden spoke, undisguised emotion spilling into his tone as the brightness of his smile dimmed while he expectantly waited for Emerson’s response.

"...Aiden?" Emerson finally managed to eke out a meager whisper.

"That's my name, don't wear it out!" Aiden joked, a tired smile and strained enthusiasm blanketing his words. It was that moment— that silly joke, that stupid phrase Emerson had heard a million times—that tipped the scales. He was speaking with his best friend again—dream or not.

"It's... holy shit, it's really you, man!" Emerson's incredulous, wide-eyed stare gradually morphed into unrestrained joy as he lunged forward and wrapped his best friend up in a big hug.

"Jesus—whoa, whoa, easy there!" Aiden laughed as he stumbled back to better intercept Emerson's hug and regain his balance.

"Ha-ha, all right, all right already!" he firmly patted Emerson's back a few times. "Get off-a me, you tall weirdo."

Emerson quickly dislodged himself and stepped back, his face full of happy disbelief.

"Ugh—just about broke my damn spine, you lunatic!" Aiden threw a half-hearted jab into Emerson's shoulder, then tenderly massaged his lower back with a disgruntled expression. Emerson couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot.

"Ha, sorry! I just..." he wildly motioned at Aiden with a hand. "I can't believe it. I mean... you're here." Emerson looked out across the cafeteria. The couple of dozen evenly spaced rectangular tables; the industrial air conditioners in the corners of the ceiling; the same drab walls, with only the football team's faded mascot as a decoration; the cafeteria section taking up the back wall with protective glass covering the food stations; the pick-up and drop-off areas packed with hundreds of light brown trays. Aiden cracked a silly grin and straightened up, then enthusiastically walked up, wrapped an arm around Emerson's shoulder, and pulled him close, patting him on the chest with his other hand as he started leading him toward the cafeteria's double doors.

"No, we're here—" he motioned around them, "—and there's something I wanted to show you." The moment the pair passed through the cafeteria's doors, reality abruptly warped for the space of a microsecond. Suddenly, they were in another part of the high school. The art room. But also... not the art room.

"Whaddya think?" Aiden shouted from his place in the center of the cathedral-like art workshop. His voice echoed acoustically throughout the space. He grandiosely gestured around himself with both arms raised in a 'V' as he slowly pivoted in a circle between two magnificent, towering marble statues. Their postures and position in the room made them feel like sentinels presiding over the room in silent, glowering vigil. Emerson barely managed to keep his mouth from dropping open at the sheer immensity and novelty of the chamber. It was nothing like how he remembered. The walls were replete with a chaotic assortment of towering canvas displays featuring colorful masterpieces that stirred the soul— their quality and styles seemingly ranging from the golden age of the Renaissance all the way to the most basic, colorless paper scribblings. The ceiling, conversely, was a concave amalgamation of sweeping arches made from what appeared to be polished ivory inlaid with various precious gemstones that glittered in the ambient lighting. The room's magnitude was stifling. Emerson felt as though he were trespassing just by looking at its majesty. Looking around, he noticed a handful of men and women standing at some of the more intricate pieces of art—their faces indistinguishable, and the outline of their forms fluidly changing shape as his gaze briefly flicked between them.

A gentle glimmer above him caught his attention. He slowly looked up, craning his head back until he looked directly at the ceiling. His vision narrowed onto the vast, glittering sea of gems. A sudden sense of vertigo washed over him as his eyes were drawn to the magnificent colors, patterned arches, and mural-like depictions of mammoth proportions. He felt as though he were looking through a swirling kaleidoscope. His body told him to look away, but his eyes hungered, demanding that he devour every detail, commanded that he lose himself in the—

"Em!" Aiden's voice jolted Emerson from his stupor, his head dropping back down, and his eyes rapidly blinking at the floor to clear away the lingering phantom images. Yet, even now, those images called to him, imploring him to look again.

‘What the fuck was that?’ A slight shudder traveled through him.

He didn't know what to think now but didn't dare look back up. A genuine fear pervaded his mind at the thought of losing himself to the beautiful illustrations. He slowly lifted his head to eye level. This time, he carefully avoided that tantalizing glimmer just above the periphery of his vision. Something sinister lurked beneath the surface of all that glitz and glitter.

Beckoning... Pleading...

He suppressed another shiver.

The sound of footsteps across the marble floor echoed throughout the immense chamber.

That sound... made the room feel hollow, somehow. Even with all the masterpieces surrounding him, this place felt... empty. He couldn’t shake the feeling. But he also couldn’t understand what it was missing. Aiden stopped beside Emerson and dropped a comforting hand onto his shoulder.

"You okay?" Aiden asked, an expecting lilt in his tone.

Emerson nodded, "Yeah, just, uh, got caught up there for a second," he glanced over at his friend with a strained half-smirk. A warm smile broke out on Aiden's face.

"Atta' boy," he nodded and squeezed Emerson's shoulder before motioning to the side with his head, saying, "Come on, I gotta show you the thing."

His hand slipped off Emerson's shoulder as he turned and walked away. Emerson's brow furrowed momentarily before his expression returned to normal, and he quickly jogged to catch up with Aiden—their combined footfalls breaking the heavy, library-like silence.

"Where to?" he asked, catching up to Aiden and walking beside him.

Aiden smirked, "You'll see—it's not far, actually, just right here." He punctuated the statement by suddenly coming to a stop and lifting his hand, a finger pointing straight ahead. Emerson didn't understand what his friend meant until his eyes tracked where the finger was pointing. His eyes widened. There, directly before the pair, a single painting was on a section of the wall that had not been there previously. Its ornate, shining-gold frame was interspersed with finely filigreed, golden leaves that naturally weaved so that it seemed as though the painting were alive at its edges. No other paintings surrounded it.

"Wow..." Emerson breathed, his eyes glued to the lone painting—lips slightly parted in wonder. He didn't even notice that he'd started approaching the artwork. Aiden said nothing and instead silently watched as Emerson approached the painting. Aiden's face was blank, but something flashed behind those eyes. The closer Emerson got, the more he became utterly entranced with the portrait. Finally, stopping about two meters from the wall, he let his eyes naturally rove over the painting.

It depicted a man with curly red hair standing upon a rocky precipice with his back to the viewer. He wore a dark green overcoat and gripped a wooden walking stick in his right hand. His hair appeared caught in a strong wind as he looked out on a landscape covered in a dense fog. In the distance, one could see several other ridges topped with obscured forests of trees that barely jutted out amidst the sea of fog. Mountains rose to the left before gently leveling off into lowland plains to the right. Further beyond those things was a pervading fog that stretched out indefinitely—merging with the horizon and becoming indistinguishable from the cloud-filled sky.

Emerson couldn't take his eyes off the painting. It evoked a deep, unfamiliar urge for something. He didn't understand this feeling. The image pulled at him—something that made chills crawl down the back of his neck and warmth blossom in his chest.

It was a portrait of... contemplation.

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Self-reflection.

The call of the unknown.

Potential.

But that didn't explain it. Why was he connecting with it to such a degree?

"Talk to me, Em," Aiden's voice somewhat anchored Emerson's wandering thoughts.

"Mm? Yeah— all good," Emerson mumbled, rapidly blinking as he returned to himself. He cocked his head to the side, trying another angle to see if he gleaned anything new or was struck with a revelation. He felt... it was so familiar. Yet so foreign.

"Where have I seen this before? What is it?" he asked over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off the painting. He wanted to reach out and run his fingers down its immaculately pitted surface—the frozen ridges of minuscule, dried paint rising above the canvas. The thought, however, greatly repulsed him—as though he intrinsically knew it was blasphemous to lay anything other than one's eyes upon the work.

"This old thing?" Aiden cocked a thumb at the portrait with a smirk, then crossed his arms.

"Hell if I know," he shrugged and pursed his lips, taking a moment to admire the art.

"Huh? You don't know?" Emerson was almost surprised enough to look away.

"Course not—" Aiden shook his head. "—you don't remember where it's from, so how could I know?" he casually remarked as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

'Right... dreams only know as much as you do.' So what was this? His subconscious was trying to communicate something... he was trying to communicate something to himself? There was something behind the image that he found overwhelmingly compelling, to the point where his thoughts and feelings were utterly engrossed with an intense sense of... belonging.

He was in this painting.

His eyes widened at the revelation, only to narrow as he realized he was now left with twice as many questions as answers. It couldn’t be him; that wasn't even remotely possible. It was an old painting, for starters, the hair was different, the build, the clothes... so why... did he know he was right? Why did that explanation fill him with a sense of completion?

'Break it down for a second, dummy. Obviously, you're not in the painting. So it must be... that the painting's message relates to me somehow?'

"That's enough now, come on." Emerson didn't hear Aiden; he tilted his head to the other side. The strange sensation grew stronger the longer he looked.

‘I’m missing something obvious. It’s so close… What is it?’ Emerson’s brows furrowed in frustration as no matter how he looked at the image, nothing changed. But that feeling. That feeling was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"Em," Aiden's voice sounded from directly behind him.

"Hm?" Emerson managed to focus on his friend's voice and looked back over his shoulder.

Aiden offered a tired smile and motioned back the way they'd come.

"Let's go."

Emerson briefly hesitated before reluctantly deciding that maybe walking around some more would free up his mind and lead to an answer. He stepped back from the painting but couldn’t help taking one last furtive glance before completely turning his back to it and following Aiden. His wandering attention was solely focused on his friend, which meant he didn’t notice the subtle change in the shadowy silhouettes spread around the room. Now, they were all attentively watching him out of the corner of their softly glowing, red eyes. And the dense sea of fog in the painting gradually turned crimson, while a dark red liquid oozed from the top of the golden framework, slowly creeping down the painting’s length and seeping into the canvas fibers. The man standing upon the rocky precipice was gradually obscured beneath a layer of the thick liquid.

"More art?" Emerson expectantly asked, oblivious to the sinister changes occurring around him. Nevertheless, he was excited about the prospect of exploring more of this strange place his mind had conjured. Maybe he would see something that only his subconscious remembered. That would be cool, right?

"Nope," Aiden shook his head.

"Oh. Where to then?"

"Here," Aiden raised a hand and snapped, the sound expanding outward in the form of visible sound waves that consumed all of reality in their wake. The surroundings blurred like an out-of-focus camera lens flying down a dark tunnel, everything warping out of proportion like a Surrealist painting. It was already over when Emerson processed what he was seeing.

The pair stood on the shining basketball court floor in the school's indoor gymnasium. The space was brightly lit and open, with over three courts sitting side-by-side with a slight demarcation painted onto the polished paneling that separated them. Emerson didn't let the jarring transition get to him. Dreams were dreams. They rarely made sense, and he was just happy to see his best friend again. If anything, he was relieved that his subconscious was finding a way of airing out its dirty laundry.

Thud-Thud-Thud!

Emerson looked over to see Aiden dribbling a new basketball at the crest of the nearest three-point line, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth while his eyes were intently trained on the hoop. He bent his knees and hopped, taking the shot! The basketball arced smoothly through the air and dove through the center of the ring—nothing but net. The ball struck the court and bounced off to the side, where it winked out of existence on the second bounce. Aiden nonchalantly kept his throwing arm extended above his head and the wrist bent as he backed away from the three-point line—the ample space suddenly filled by the sound of the basketball buzzer wildly going off. Finally, he dropped his shooting arm back down to his side and turned back to Emerson—a pleased smirk plastered on his face.

"Still got it, baby!" he whooped.

Emerson politely smiled and crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto his right leg.

"You always did like basketball," Emerson remarked, thinking back on all those days after lunch when they'd rush out to the courts to grab the best basketball from the supply rack before the flood of other students could steal it away. He remembered it like it was yesterday, honestly. Aiden would always beg him to eat faster so they could get out sooner, and Emerson would always put up some minor resistance before begrudgingly scarfing down his food. He always felt bloated when playing and ended up burping or getting cramps when jogging across the court on a full stomach for the twentieth time. Not to mention how much he’d sweat despite the excellent air conditioning. Now that he thought about it, the sweating was probably because of how packed the gym was during lunch. That made sense.

"What's not to like?!" Aiden demanded with a 'how dare you?' expression. Then, he started bouncing in place on the balls of his feet and stretching his arms.

“Well, it sucks, for starters,” Emerson nonchalantly said, cocking an eyebrow in challenge.

“You take that back.”

“Nope,” a smile tugged at Emerson’s mouth. ‘Just like the good ole days,’ he thought, a surge of emotion rising in his chest as all the fond memories raced through his mind.

“Oh, wait! That’s right, I remember now!” Aiden shouted, exaggeratedly smacking his forehead as though he’d remembered something obvious.

“You don’t like basketball because of ‘Horse’!" He returned to his usual composure and smirked. “Didn’t like being a ‘Ho,’ huh?” Aiden innocently asked.

“Pfft,” Emerson shook his head and uncrossed his arms, tucking his hands into his pants pockets.

“Naw, dude,” he slipped a hand out of his pocket and harshly gestured to the area beneath the hoop. “It was because whenever I missed my shot, and someone was beneath the net, they’d always, always hit my ball halfway across school property!”

Aiden was momentarily taken aback before a huge smile broke out across his face, and he hung his head, his shoulders jumping as he silently laughed.

“Without fail! Every single time!” Emerson was now shouting with a smile, trying not to laugh himself as he watched Aiden bend over from loudly laughing now, clutching his stomach with both hands.

“Why are you laughing?! It was awful—I swear I almost missed the next period one day!” Emerson was now animatedly pacing around, occasionally ‘angrily’ pointing at Aiden.

“Wait—wait... Ha-ha—do you—ha…” Aiden struggled to speak his mind between bouts of laughter.

“Do you remember when—haha—that—hehe—that one time…” Aiden now forced himself to stand straight and tried to control his breathing while his reddened face contorted between normalcy and dying of laughter.

“Oh… Oh—oh my god…” The laughter partially subsided, and Aiden looked up at the ceiling and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with a finger. “Jesus, wow… Anyway—haha,” Aiden chuckled as he dried his eyes.

“You good, man?” Emerson asked with a disbelieving chuckle. What was so funny?

“Goddamnit. Huu, shit. Ah, man. I was just—” he cleared his throat, “—just thinking about that one time your ball hit Mrs. Cloe!” Aiden’s cheeks puffed out as he forcefully suppressed another laugh when seeing Emerson’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates in realization.

“Nooo…” Emerson groaned, covering his face with both hands and hanging his head. That had to have been one of his most embarrassing moments. Ever. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about it!

On the other hand, Aiden was having an absolute blast at his friend’s expense.

“A legend was born that day….” Aiden’s voice dropped an octave as he spoke in the voice of a movie announcement trailer. His face contorted at the end as he held in another laugh.

“Shut up!” Emerson gave a low growl. He was blushing beneath his hands.

“You gave another meaning to ‘picking up chicks.’”

“She was married!” Emerson howled, covering his face while trying not to die of embarrassment. That moment was now replaying in his head.

“She was! Ahaha! I couldn’t believe what I was watching—no one could!” Aiden snickered.

“I forgot about that…” Emerson moaned.

“Dude, everyone saw.” Aiden sagely nodded, crossing his arms.

“I couldn’t look at her for weeks….” Emerson sulked, lowering his hands and huffing.

“Aw, dude. You missed out!” Aiden walked over and leaned in conspiratorially, holding a hand beside his mouth in a stage whisper.

“She wore that purple dress the next day!” He stepped back with a broad, knowing smirk.

Emerson’s jaw dropped, “She did not.”

“She most certainly did.” Aiden nodded.

Emerson groaned and shoved Aiden’s shoulder, eliciting another laugh from him.

Then Emerson looked around the quiet gymnasium. He felt a pang in his chest. The silence felt… wrong. Having such a beautiful recreation center devoid of laughter, conversation, jokes, or people felt weird. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

He also had another realization mixed in.

“I missed this place.” Emerson couldn’t help saying, wistfully sighing, as he scanned the room’s perimeter.

Aiden cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you hated high school? You wouldn’t shut up about it in college.” He skeptically said, his arms crossed.

Emerson snorted and ran a hand through his hair with a self-deprecating smile. “I did, and I still do.”

“Yeah,” Aiden drawled, smirking, “cause’ the whole pleasantly reminiscing thing speaks to your hatred.”

Emerson shrugged, “I can’t explain it. I just…” he raised and dropped his hands, then motioned to everything around them. “I miss it. All of it.”

“Right. Yeah. Makes perfect sense.” Aiden readily agreed, nodding without a trace of sarcasm in his tone—the highest form of sarcasm.

“Asshole.” Emerson scoffed, taking another long look around the gymnasium before walking to the equipment storeroom. Aiden silently followed.

Emerson approached the polished metallic countertop and placed his hands, palms down, onto the cool surface. He silently stood there and closed his eyes, basking in that familiar feeling and the memories it evoked. Then, he opened his eyes, surveying the area behind the counter he'd never entered. Everything was how he remembered it, at least from the perspective of having been almost a head shorter and dumber. A basketball rack was pushed up against the back wall, with the top two rows full of basketballs, while the bottom one had a dodgeball and a deflated, forlorn-looking football. He never did learn the story of why they'd never thrown it out, but also never bothered to inflate it again. Fuckin' school, man. At least it hadn't gotten on his nerves; he’d never personally gotten into football back in the day anyway, mainly because his friends played basketball more than anything and because he'd never been good at throwing the damn thing. His friends had always said his spiral looked like a rabies-infected squirrel having an aneurysm. He smirked at that particular memory.

'Bastards,' he inwardly snickered, glancing over to the left, where some more miscellaneous sporting gear was hanging off the wall from coat hooks, lying in clear plastic bins, or stacked on a large, rectangular grey metal drawer. He pushed off the countertop as he felt that the metal had started warming beneath his palms and stood back, his eyes casually sweeping the supply room in a quick once-over.

"What're ya thinkin'?" Aiden asked, crossing his arms.

"Mm. Honestly?" Emerson shrugged, "-about how the good ole days never last. And that we can't appreciate them while living it."

"Wow, feeling introspective today, Descartes?"

Emerson sniffed, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned around and crossed his arms. "You're the one who brought me here."

"Well," Aiden drawled, uncrossing an arm to make that universal 'so-so' motion. "-technically, you brought yourself here," he said, pointing a finger before crossing his arms again.

Emerson's brow rose as he processed that for a moment. Then, he uncrossed his arms and slowly looked around. "Huh, I guess I did, didn't I?"

"Makes you think, right?" Aiden agreed.

"I'll say," Emerson paused and then looked back at Aiden, his eyes narrowing as he took a moment to scrutinize this imaginative replica of his friend.

"So..." Emerson slowly said.

Aiden cocked an eyebrow, a perfectly amused expression on his face as he patiently waited.

"...You're me, huh?"

Aiden smiled and looked up as though in thought. "Mm. Yeah, pretty much," he nodded, then waited.

"Why?" Emerson finally asked, though now, there was a definite wariness behind the question. He was thrilled to have seen his friend; it’d been a mistake to push those memories and emotions away just because he didn't trust himself not to unravel at the mere thought. He'd mercilessly thrown himself into his career, working himself to the bone so he could move on. So he could forget. Was it weak to have chosen that approach? Probably, but it was what he'd chosen. He knew now that it'd been the wrong way, but hindsight was 20-20. This was an opportunity. But he also recognized that this thing wasn't his friend. Not really. It was an idealized conceptualization of who he'd been. A hollow imitation of someone who'd carried depth, character... life. So why had his mind created this Aiden?

"You know why," Aiden stated, offering an odd smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Ignoring the fact that his thoughts could be in fact read, Emerson spoke after a beat. "Which is clearly why I asked, right?" He shot back, crossing his arms.

Aiden shrugged, but still with that grin. "You like being told—why not think for a change?" His tone was completely neutral, like an answering machine. It wasn't condescending, not even challenging.

Emerson's eyes narrowed, "So that's how it's gonna be?" Aiden didn't respond and silently watched as Emerson slowly allowed himself to be lost in thought, and soon, an indeterminate amount of time passed. Emerson silently mulled over whatever stray thought entered his mind. The gymnasium fell into a crypt-like silence as the pair no longer spoke.

'What's the connection?' Emerson thought, examining the question from as many angles as possible. Naturally, this train of thought led him into many dark corners he no longer wanted to think about. But it was necessary. Because apparently, he thought it was necessary. He closed his eyes and dug deeper. It struck suddenly, and it was apparent. More evident than he would have liked. More noticeable than he would admit.

"I'm avoiding something," Emerson mumbled, tasting each individual word. Finally, his eyes slowly opened as he inclined his head and solemnly gazed at the floor in thought.

"What was that?" Aiden asked; something flashed behind his eyes as he unblinkingly scrutinized Emerson.

"You're here," Emerson looked up and met Aiden's eyes. "-because I'm avoiding something," he said slowly, deliberately. Almost as though he needed to hear the words, not just think them.

The pair silently stared one another down until Aiden finally cracked a weary half-smile and uncrossed his arms. "That's right," he said.

"What am I avoiding?" Emerson demanded, some frustration seeping into his tone as he motioned at the surroundings with a hand. "What's all this for?"

"To prepare you."

"For what?" Emerson incredulously asked, the question coming out more strongly than he'd intended.

"The truth," Aiden said with a sad smile and stepped back. Then, he raised his hand and snapped.

The previously bright and relatively cheery atmosphere of the gymnasium fell away. Instead, an illusive, oppressive darkness slowly descended, a dark dreariness overtaking the room.

Emerson's eyes rapidly flicked around as he took in the strange change, his hardened expression strained as he fought to maintain his composure. Then his eyes fell back onto Aiden. He sucked in a sharp breath as his mouth suddenly went dry, and horror slowly spread across his face. He involuntarily stepped back, his eyes bulging as he rapidly blinked in disbelief. Intense disorientation washed over him like he’d stood up too fast.

"Do you see now?..." a voice calmly asked—his voice.

Emerson’s hands began trembling, and an ache in the back of his throat made swallowing and breathing difficult.

"...What I am?"

...Drip…

Emerson slowly backed away until his lower back hit the storeroom's countertop. He reflexively grabbed onto the counter's edge with a white-knuckled grip. Unfortunately, his complexion wasn’t much better, having paled and gone sickly. His heartbeat didn’t know whether to race or stop at the nightmarish sight.

'Aiden' had transformed into a mirror image of Emerson.

His doppelganger's face was smeared with fresh, dark blood, excessively at the mouth and neck. He wore extremely familiar torn, blood-stained scrubs that barely clung to his emaciated, half-naked frame. A jagged, pale scar traced across the top of his exposed chest, and his black hair was lanky and dirty. A suppressed sidearm hung limp in his right hand, and a strange silver dagger was gripped in the left. Bright red blood beaded at the blade's tip before falling to the floor.

...Drip…

"...What you are?" His doppelganger stepped forward. The surrounding darkness drew closer. Emerson leaned back over the counter, his mind screaming at him to run, but his legs remained rooted. That was when he noticed the bodies—dozens of them.

Mangled and despicably mutilated beyond recognition, they were spread across the court behind his clone. Pools of blood slowly spread out from beneath them. Their heads were all angled to face Emerson, their lifeless, milky eyes staring at him. Eyes overflowing with silent bitterness... resentment... animosity... blame.

"Are you ready?" The doppelganger cocked its head.

"F-f-for w-what?" Emerson could barely get the words out; he was trembling so hard.

'Please let me wake up. Please wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!' he silently begged.

Nothing changed.

A predatory smile spread across his doppelganger's blood-stained face. The darkness shifted.

"To see."