The hallway stretched ahead like a scar through time.

Ceiling lights flickered overhead – some dim with rot, others flaring in bursts of colourless heat. The walls bled between shapes: peeling hospital wallpaper, scorched concrete, mould-stained wood. Every few steps, it changed. The scent shifted too – disinfectant, burning meat, the iron tang of old blood.

But Liz didn't flinch.

She walked forward, boots striking the ground in steady rhythm. Her red armour had returned – not summoned but remembered. Her halo pulsed behind her, no longer faint, no longer cracked. It cast a soft glow ahead of her, chasing back the shadows.

She passed fragments of herself along the way – scratched drawings, half-burnt photographs, teeth.

None of it slowed her.

Then she saw her.

Hana stood near the end of the corridor, half-transparent. Not quite a ghost, not quite alive. Her outline flickered with static like a faulty signal. She wore the same pale robes Liz remembered – but they were torn at the edges now, threadbare and scorched. Her eyes were wide, filled with something brittle and silent.

Liz froze.

It wasn't shock. It wasn't fear. It was recognition.

"I remember you," Liz said softly.

Her voice didn't echo. It settled. Like it belonged here now.

Hana didn't speak at first. Her lips parted but her voice didn't come. She looked at Liz like someone witnessing an eclipse.

Then, slowly, she raised one hand.

Liz reached for it.

Their hands touched— No. They didn't.

Liz's gauntlet passed through Hana's fingers, like smoke through firelight.

But Hana smiled anyway. "You… really do?"

Liz nodded. Her throat tightened, but she didn't cry. There were no tears left in her. Only heat.

"I remember every minute," she said. "Every time you stopped me from giving up. Every time you stood between me and the dark. Even when I hated you. Even when I tried to forget."

"You were the voice I hated the most," Liz whispered, barely audible. "Because you never gave up on me when I wanted to let go. When I tried to drown myself in silence, you kept talking. When I begged the dark to take me, you lit matches in the corners."

Her breath caught.

"I thought if I erased you, maybe I'd finally disappear."

Hana's lower lip trembled. "I know," she whispered. "But I stayed anyway."

Hana swallowed. Her voice finally returned – barely a whisper. "I didn't know if I was real."

"You are," Liz said. "You always were."

The hallway groaned – walls bending, light dimming.

A low vibration trembled through the air, too deep for sound.

The Devourer.

It had felt her now. Felt both of them. It was coming.

Hana tensed. "We don't have long."

"I know." Liz stepped forward, between them now only inches. "I'm going to kill it."

Hana blinked. "It's part of you. You said that."

"I know that too."

She turned to face the end of the corridor, where the walls bled into one another and the floor grew teeth. Her halo flared, casting the rot into sharp relief.

"I'm not afraid of what I'll lose," Liz said.

She clenched one fist, and the air rippled. "I'm afraid of who I'll lose if I don't."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Even if killing it means killing part of me… I'd rather die whole than live in pieces."

Behind her, Hana smiled – proud, aching, unsure.

And the hallway began to collapse.

…………………

They stood at the edge of it.

Beyond the hallway, the world had been stripped to light – colourless, sterile, endless. A white void, stretching in every direction, filled with fragments of memories like discarded bones. Photographs half-burned. Names without faces. Screams caught in glass jars. The floor wasn't solid. It was intention. It shifted when you doubted, collapsed when you feared.

Hana tried not to look down.

Liz moved with purpose, but Hana could already feel it unravelling again. The Devourer wasn't gone. It was circling. Angry. Afraid. Closer.

Then the sky above the void split.

It didn't break open with thunder. It peeled, like a rotting sheet of porcelain – revealing something underneath.

Something vast.

A tide of flesh and teeth and shrieking masks came pouring in. Not physical, but mental. A scream with shape. It washed toward them like a tidal wave made of every thought Liz had tried to bury.

Hana screamed too.

Her legs buckled. Her form began to lose definition – edges fraying, limbs dissolving into static. Her voice shrank to a whisper of colour. Her outline cracked like a broken pane of glass.

Then it spoke.

Not aloud. Inside her.

"You were nothing but a mask she used to survive."

The voice was hers. And Liz's. And something older, hollowed by hunger. The voice didn't just speak.

It infected.

It showed Hana images – a thousand times Liz screamed at her, cursed her, ignored her. It whispered memories of being erased, overwritten, replaced.

"You were her make-believe crutch. An imaginary friend for a little girl who couldn't face the dark."

Her outline faltered further. She wasn't fading. She was being unwritten.

Hana collapsed to her knees, fading faster.

Maybe it was right. Maybe she'd never existed. Just a thought Liz had needed – nothing more. A crutch. A shield. A voice of reason when everything else went dark.

She began to cry – but the tears didn't fall. They simply vanished before hitting the ground.

But Liz didn't run.

She turned.

And closed her eyes.

Hana could feel it: a pulse, slow and rising. The warmth of Liz's presence, steady and red, washing over her like sunlight through stained glass.

Then Liz spoke.

"No. You're real."

Her voice cut through the wave like a sword of heat.

"You're mine."

Her hand extended – fingers trembling, not from weakness but will. Not pleading. Reaching.

Hana tried to lift her arm, but it was gone.

No, not gone. Forgotten.

She concentrated. She focused on the memory of her fingers, her palm, her wrist—

And felt Liz's hand catch it. Skin touched skin. When Liz's hand closed around Hana's wrist, it felt like being born through fire. Painful. Cleansing. Real. Every nerve in Hana's body screamed at once – not in agony, but recognition. She could feel her shape rushing back into her – bones knitting, lungs inflating, her name burning into the air like a vow: Hana.

The red halo behind Liz exploded.

A burst of psychic flame roared outward, scouring the white void in every direction. The tide of flesh and mask-thought screamed, reeling back into the void. The crack in the sky sealed.

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Silence fell.

And Hana breathed.

She felt her lungs fill. Felt the heat on her skin. Felt the ache in her knees. Her body had returned – not perfect, but present. Pale robes. Hands. A heartbeat. Glowing soulmark tattoos burned softly across her arms and collarbone, like scars remade into light.

Her face was streaked with tears but they were hers.

She staggered upright, took one breath—

And laughed.

A short, disbelieving, choked-out laugh.

"Thank you," she whispered, the words crumbling from her mouth like prayer.

Liz smiled back, face pale, sweat shining on her brow. Her halo had dimmed slightly, but her eyes were bright.

"Let's kill the thing," she said, voice hoarse but firm.

"Then we get out of here."

…………………

Not empty. Not peaceful. Just wrong.

It stretched endlessly in every direction, a dead ocean of blank light. There were no walls. No sky. No gravity. Only absence. As if the soul had been scraped clean, memory by memory, until nothing was left but numb white.

This was the core. This was where it waited. Its lair.

Liz stepped forward. Her boots left no sound. The air felt thick with thought – unfinished sentences, half-remembered touches. The last place her name had meaning.

Then it rose.

First a shadow. Then a mass. Then a form.

The Devourer pulled itself into shape with a thousand twitching limbs. Arms stitched from baby teeth and father's hands. Legs like inverted ribs. A spine woven from braided hair, still wet. Masks grew from its torso like boils – some cracked, some pristine. Each one faced her.

One mask – April. Another – Max. Then Jack's. Hana's. Her own.

It didn't speak with one mouth. It didn't need to.

"Lizzie," April's voice cooed, warm and dead. "You don't deserve my love," came Max's, low with blame. "You said you loved me," Jack's voice said, breaking with pain. "Why did you stop looking for me?" Hana whispered.

Then it smiled with her voice.

"You were better when I was in control."

Her knuckles were already bloodless from how tightly she clenched her fists. She didn't flinch – not because she wasn't scared, but because there was nothing left inside her that could run.

"You already took everything," she said. "So, I've got nothing to lose."

Her halo surged behind her – ribbons of red fire twining down her arms, wrapping around her chest. The armour responded. Heat pooled in her limbs, coiling like muscle, like instinct. Her gauntlets reformed – no longer sleek, but jagged, raw, forged in rage.

The Devourer lunged.

Liz moved.

She met it mid-air – fist slamming into its chest, red energy bursting in a shockwave that ripped its torso open. Tongues spilled out. It laughed anyway.

Then the illusions began.

One blink— she was back in Jack's bedroom, blood pooling beneath the door. Another blink— dad screaming, burning, begging. Another— her mother, face calm, asking her to come home.

Every memory twisted. Every regret sharpened.

Her knees faltered once. The images clung like leeches, whispering failure, rejection, shame.

You killed them. You abandoned me. You deserved this. You liked it when I controlled you.

"I liked not being alone," Liz muttered. "But I hated that it was you."

Her fist erupted with red fire as it slammed forward.

"You were never me. You were the infection."

Her halo burst again – this time in waves. Psychic shock tore the illusions apart, shattering them into floating glass.

She punched through the next wave of limbs. Dodged a spear of teeth. Screamed as one tendril scraped across her ribs – cutting through memory and flesh alike.

It didn't matter. She kept fighting.

Every strike she landed lit the void with colour. Every time her gauntlets connected, the blank whiteness trembled. She screamed names as she fought:

"Mum." Crack. "Dad." Boom. "Jack." Shatter. "Hana." Rip. "Me." Burn.

The Devourer staggered. Wailed. Melted into something more primal.

But then— it changed.

Its body twisted. Its limbs reformed. It mirrored her. Red armour. Red halo. Her face. Her smile. Her exact voice.

It floated toward her, not with rage – but certainty.

"You are mine," it said, gently.

"You always were."

…………………

Hana stood in the void and watched Liz fall apart.

Not physically – her body was still fighting. Her arms moved. Her armour held. Her fire burned.

But something behind Liz's eyes was beginning to crack.

Each strike the Devourer landed wasn't just physical. It wasn't bruising her. It was hollowing her. Every psychic jab hit a fault line.

And worse – every counterstrike Liz landed left her shaken. As if with each blow, she wasn't hurting the Devourer, but herself.

Because it had her face now. Her voice. Her memories.

And when she punched it, it bled her guilt.

"You think strength will make you clean?" it whispered through her lips.

"You've always been the monster."

Liz hesitated.

Just one heartbeat. One flicker. But in the battlefield of the soul, that was enough.

Her halo flickered. Her footing slipped. Her hands curled – not into fists, but questions. The red fire shrank.

Hana's breath caught. Her body tensed, uselessly.

I have to reach her.

Liz collapsed to her knees. The Devourer's face—her face—leaned down, whispering, "You think you're the survivor? You're the weapon. The perfect shell. The child who outlived everyone she loved and still believed it made her strong."

Her lips parted – wanting to scream. But only breath escaped.

Hana stepped forward – but the void warped beneath her feet. It didn't want her closer. The core was rejecting her now, sensing she didn't belong to this moment.

So, Hana stopped moving.

And spoke.

Not aloud. Into Liz's mind – gently, clearly, like the first breath after drowning.

"You're not broken."

Liz flinched.

"You're Liz. You're still here."

That was it.

That was the break in the dam.

Liz's body trembled – but not from pain. From release. Her shoulders sagged. Her lips parted, not for a scream – but a breath. And then—

She stopped fighting.

She let go.

Not of the battle. Of the weight.

Of the guilt.

Of the need to be clean.

And the fire responded.

Her halo exploded into shining red brilliance – no longer just heat, but memory, rage, love. The entire void lit up. Not blinding – but true. Light that saw everything. A flame that forgave nothing and feared nothing.

Liz surged forward.

The Devourer tried to shift again – into Jack, into Alyssa, into Chloe.

It didn't matter anymore.

Liz didn't hesitate.

Her fist crashed into its chest – straight through the mirrored red halo, into its centre. But it wasn't just a punch.

She was taking it back.

The energy snapped – no scream, just a gasp from the Devourer, like it had finally remembered what pain was.

It writhed— but it didn't bleed. It didn't burst.

It folded— drawn inward, devoured by the same flame it had tried to snuff out.

As if Liz had carved open its core not to destroy it, but to consume it. To reclaim what had always been hers.

Its final noise wasn't fear. It was recognition.

Then it was gone.

The void didn't collapse. It recoiled – like something ashamed of what it had held.

No fanfare. No light. Just the quiet ache of a battlefield where no one cheered.

Liz knelt in the stillness, hands trembling. She didn't smile. She didn't cry. She just breathed.

As if breathing itself was the first act of defiance.

…………………

There was no collapse, no flash of light. Just a slow fading, like breath on a mirror. The void retreated, colour returning in streaks – dusty reds, fading blues. Somewhere far behind them, the echoes of the Devourer vanished like old thunder.

Hana walked beside Liz now. Not ghostly. Not glowing. Just herself. Solid. Breathing. Whole.

The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was sacred. The kind of silence that only comes when words would cost too much.

Then the door came into view.

It stood at the end of a narrow path of cracked tile and shattered glass. Tall. Heavy. Metal banded and scarred. Dented in at the centre. Smeared with blood, old and dry. Its handle was rusted from years of contact. From fingers clawing, grasping, begging.

Liz froze.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

She took a step forward. Then another. Her boots crunched over something. She looked down.

A child's drawing – weathered, stained. Stick figures. One labelled "Mum." One labelled "Dad." One had no label. It was just… her. The figure's head was scribbled over, again and again, until the paper had torn through.

Hana picked it up.

Liz didn't look at her. "That was the second year."

"You remember all of them?"

"I tried not to." Her voice cracked.

There were more drawings. Pinned under the first. One of her hugging Jack. One of her holding her mother's hand. One of just the door – over and over again, scratched out, drawn again, scribbled black.

"Year five," Liz whispered. "That's when I stopped using colours."

Her voice shook. "Year seven… I tried to kill myself in here. Just to see if I could."

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years trying to leave.

"You never stopped trying," Hana said softly.

Liz swallowed hard. Her hand hovered inches from the handle. "There were days I wanted to. I wanted to disappear. Because remembering meant I was still human. And being human hurt too much."

Her fingers finally made contact with the cold metal.

She touched the door – and for one breath, she wasn't here. She was small again. Maybe six. Kneeling on this same floor. Drawing the door on the wall in crayon.

Back then, she'd made it blue. With a sun in the corner. A way out. She'd believed if she just drew it enough, it might become real.

That drawing was gone now. Scraped away by years.

Just like her hope.

Her fingers trembled – not with fear. With memory. With the weight of every time she had come here and failed. Broken nails. Broken fists. Screaming until her throat bled. Pleading with no one.

She blinked fast. "I'm sorry I ever tried to erase you."

Hana simply smiled and reached out, placing a hand over hers. "It's been less than two years out there. But in here, you've endured a lifetime."

Liz turned her head, just slightly.

Hana smiled – tearful, proud, shaken.

"You're stronger than any of us," she whispered.

Liz's shoulders shook.

She wanted to collapse. To cry. To scream one last time. But instead, she breathed.

"I don't feel strong," she said.

"Then let me remind you." Hana squeezed her hand. "You walked through fire. You gave up everything to hold on to who you are. Even when no one remembered you... you did."

The words settled into her chest like gravity. Like truth. Her legs buckled. She collapsed into Hana's arms, sobbing once – not the kind that begs for help, but the kind that says: I made it. I survived. A human sound from a girl who had been too strong for too long.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming," she whispered.

Hana leaned forward. Kissed her forehead. "No dream ever hurt this much."

Liz laughed – once, broken – and turned the handle. She didn't yank it open. She didn't blast it with fire.

She turned it – slowly, deliberately.

The door creaked. The light on the other side wasn't golden or radiant. It was real – cool, harsh, white. The kind of light that comes through hospital windows. That burns when you've been in the dark too long.

Liz stepped through.

And opened her eyes.

The pod didn't explode. It exhaled. A breath fifteen years in the making.

The glass cracked outward in a perfect ripple – not sound, but pressure. A tremor of presence.

Every fighter on the battlefield turned.

Victor froze mid-swing. Alyssa gasped. Chloe's sword clattered from her belt to the dirt.

Even Zagan paused.

Time didn't stop. It bent.

And Liz sat up.

Her armour was half-melted. Her skin slick with sweat and cryofluid. Steam coiled from her shoulders as the last of the psychic barrier dissolved. Her halo flared once – red and shining – then settled behind her like a crown forged from fire and memory.

Her eyes opened.

Not green. Red.

No irises. No pupils. No fear.

But then – something else.

She inhaled – and felt everything.

The heat of the battle. The blood on Victor's knuckles. The ache in Chloe's leg. Alyssa's panicked breathing. Kabe's missing hand. The cold clarity in Ying's soul. Hana's exhausted joy still lingering like incense.

And then— her father.

Max.

Somewhere beyond the smoke and screaming, she felt him breaking. Not just his body – his hope. His mind fraying at the edges. His fire dimming. A scream locked behind his teeth. Alone. Cornered. Dying.

Her lips parted.

Her breath caught – then steadied.

She reached – not with her hands, but her soul. Across smoke and fire and broken earth, she found it. A thread. Thin. Fragile. But still warm. Max.

Like the door she'd drawn as a child – never real, until it was. She stepped through it again now, not in fear, but for him.

Somewhere in the chaos, he was slipping – into silence, into ash. His fire dwindled with every breath.

And then – he felt her.

A voice lit the darkness behind his ribs.

"Daddy."

Every candle in the shrine flared.

And Liz felt it – his soul, fragile but still burning. The man who never gave up on her. The man she came back for. Her fingers curled into the dirt. Not just awake – called.

Max gasped – as if her voice had punched through water and smoke and found him.

The yokai froze mid-lunge.

Zagan's smile faltered. Her tails twitched. Her pupils contracted. For the first time, she felt it – a presence that didn't belong to her world. A soul returned wrong.

And the air changed.

She didn't rise yet. She didn't speak again. She didn't need to.

Liz was awake.

The world was burning. And this time – she was coming for him.

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