[T-minus 33 Days Until Dimensional Event Ritual Completion]

They stood at the threshold of the First Circle, facing the mist.

It wasn't fog. Fog drifted. Fog danced. This didn't move – it waited.

A vast, colourless ocean of vapor stretched into the ruins of Chengdu's old city district, blotting out buildings, sky, and sound. Light hit it and vanished. Footsteps echoed once, then fell dead. The air smelled wrong – like copper and wet ash, and something faintly sweet, like rotting fruit.

Max tightened the grip on Ferron's chain. "This is it."

Dan stood beside him, breathing slow but heavy, eyes flicking warily across the thick white wall. Alyssa had her arms crossed, but her fingers twitched like she was ready to fight the air itself. Victor spat once into the dirt and rolled his shoulders like a bull about to charge. Ferron whispered something in Japanese under his breath. A prayer, maybe. Even Alpha and Omega – stone-faced killers – looked uneasy.

The sky overhead darkened slightly, though no clouds moved. No sun pierced through. No sound reached them from beyond the boundary.

They stepped in.

Sound vanished immediately – like being dropped into a tank of cotton. Max took four steps and lost sight of Victor. Another two, and Ferron was gone. The air grew thick around him, clinging to his skin like wet gauze. His own heartbeat sounded too loud, too slow. His boots touched something soft… moss? Carpet? Pavement? He couldn't tell. Every step landed on something different.

Then – voices. Distant. Familiar.

"Liz?" he breathed.

A child's laugh. Soft and bright, like glass shattering in reverse. It came from the mist ahead, then behind, then inside his skull.

He turned. Nothing. The others were gone.

Panic surged, but Max crushed it. This is Verrine's domain. Doubt. Illusion. Don't trust your senses.

"Victor? Dan?"

Faint replies. Warped by the fog. Someone screamed – then laughed – then begged for help. A dozen echoes, layered over each other, just out of reach.

Max's pulse quickened. The air pressed tighter. His legs moved slower. Every sound now came with an aftertaste – like memory dipped in poison.

He knew what this place was. Knew what it wanted.

The Circle of Doubt didn't attack. It seduced. It offered comfort. Mercy. Forgiveness. It gave you everything you lost… and watched you drown in it.

Victor's voice rang out from somewhere far to the left, warped and distant: "Stick together – don't trust what you see!"

It was the last real thing Max heard.

Then the mist swallowed him whole.

…………………

Alyssa blinked – and the mist was gone.

Her boots weren't on rubble anymore. She stood on worn carpet – rose-coloured, patterned with cartoon stars. A familiar scent hit her, sharp and intimate: baby powder, stale air-conditioning, something burnt from the old toaster.

Her bedroom.

No, she thought. Not possible.

The posters on the wall hadn't faded yet. Her desk was cluttered with half-finished school projects and glitter pens. A cracked Game Boy lay on the floor, still open to the Pokémon loading screen. The stuffed rabbit – Mr. Gray – sat slumped against her pillow.

And there, standing in the middle of the room, was her.

A younger Alyssa. Nine years old. Skinny, scabbed knees. Wearing that too-short tank top with the sparkly heart she used to love. Big brown eyes, heavy with unshed tears, stared back at her.

"You came back," the child whispered.

Alyssa froze.

The child ran forward and wrapped her arms around Alyssa's waist before she could move. Her grip was small but desperate, clinging with all the force of abandonment.

The voice was so small.

Alyssa didn't answer. After a moment she untangled herself from the girl. She crouched beside the bed, staring at the child who used to be her. That sharp jaw, the chipped nail polish. Same brown eyes. Just more honest.

The girl whimpered. "You left me alone."

Alyssa's lips parted. "I didn't have a choice."

"You promised."

"I know."

"You said we'd be okay."

"I lied."

The silence after was too clean. No cars outside. No wind. Just the ragged sound of the child breathing.

Alyssa reached for her but stopped. Her fingers hovered inches away from that trembling arm.

The girl tilted her head. "You don't have to be angry anymore."

"I'm not angry," Alyssa said, voice hoarse.

"Yes, you are. You hate them. You hate everything. You think if you stay strong enough, no one can leave you again."

Alyssa swallowed hard. "And I was right."

"But I'm still here," the girl said. "We could go back. You don't have to fight anymore. We could just stay. Forget all of it. Chloe, Jack, demons. Everything."

The words were soft – too soft.

Alyssa stood abruptly.

The girl flinched.

Alyssa's jaw clenched as her eyes scanned the room again. Too perfect. Every stuffed toy in place. No smell of dust. No old water stains on the window. Even the air felt padded, like reality wrapped in cotton.

This wasn't a memory. It was bait.

"I'm not nine anymore," Alyssa said coldly.

The girl looked confused. "But—"

"You're not me. Not really. You're just something this place made to keep me here."

The illusion flickered. The stars on the ceiling pulsed faintly red. The breeze vanished.

"I don't need comfort. I need truth." Her voice cracked, but she didn't look away.

The girl's face slowly melted into sadness. Into something ancient. Wrong.

"You'll be alone again," it whispered, voice flattening into something hollow.

"I already am," Alyssa muttered – and walked through the door.

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Light shattered behind her. The walls cracked. The scent of rot replaced the air.

But the mist didn't reclaim her.

Not yet.

…………………

The mist lifted – and Chloe found herself in sunlight.

It was warm. Gentle. Not the choking gold of divine fire or the sterile lights of the Grimm Institute. Just soft morning sun filtering through a suburban window.

A breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and soap.

She sat in a kitchen she didn't recognise – clean, old, loved. Porcelain plates. Faded wallpaper. A kettle whistling softly in the background.

Footsteps padded behind her.

Alyssa entered first, hair down, smile lazy. She wore a hoodie far too big for her – probably Jack's. She carried a plate of pancakes and dropped into a seat beside Chloe.

Then Liz came in.

Alive. Awake. Whole.

She wore fuzzy socks and a paper crane tucked behind one ear.

"You're up early," Liz said with a sleepy grin.

Chloe couldn't speak.

Alyssa reached out, touched her wrist. "You okay?"

Chloe nodded but she wasn't.

Something inside her was already unravelling.

Liz poured orange juice. "We don't have to fight anymore. You did it, you know."

Chloe blinked. "Did what?"

"You protected me. All of us. You got us through."

Alyssa raised her glass. "To the real hero."

Chloe opened her mouth – nothing came out.

The sun grew warmer. Her arms felt heavy.

"You can sleep now," Liz whispered. "It's over."

A strange quiet settled into her chest. Not relief. Not peace. Just absence.

She looked down. Her hands were fading at the edges. Fingers like mist.

"I… I don't want to go," she whispered.

Alyssa didn't respond.

Liz kept smiling. "We'll be okay without you."

That hurt more than anything.

"No," Chloe said, louder now. "No, I'm not done."

She stood abruptly. The room flickered. The plates vanished. Liz and Alyssa were statues – frozen in perfect serenity.

"You don't get to tell me that!" she shouted. "You don't get to say you'll be fine without me!"

The illusion shuddered.

"I'm not the strong one. I'm not brave. But I stay. I choose to stay."

The kitchen cracked open, wallpaper peeling in long red strips. The floor turned to mist.

"I'm still here," Chloe whispered. "I won't disappear."

And the fog swallowed the false sunlight whole.

…………………

Dan opened his eyes to sunlight.

Golden beams poured through the old kitchen window, catching motes of flour in the air. The scent of toast, fried eggs, and cinnamon drifted lazily through the room.

He stood barefoot on warm tile.

Across the room, April turned from the stove, her hair tied up in a lazy bun, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her face lit up when she saw him.

"Morning," she said, smiling like it was any other Sunday.

Dan didn't move.

A plate clinked gently onto the table. Two cups of coffee steamed. He knew the chipped mug. Knew the smell of that cheap cinnamon. Knew the exact shade of red on her nails. Everything was… perfect.

Too perfect.

"I made your favourite, little bro," she said. "C'mon. Sit."

His legs felt like lead. "April…?"

She chuckled, walking past him to ruffle his hair like she used to. "You always get like this when you're tired. Go sit down."

He lowered himself into the wooden chair. It creaked under him. Familiar. Real.

April poured coffee, sat across from him, hands folded gently. "You okay?"

Dan stared at her. "You died."

She smiled, almost sadly. "Not here."

He clenched the edge of the table. "This isn't real."

"Does it matter?"

That stopped him. She reached across the table, her hand resting gently over his.

"You don't have to fight anymore, Dan. It's over. You've done enough."

He shook his head. "No. No, I haven't. Liz is still—"

"She's safe. Everyone's safe now." Her eyes were soft. Infinite. "You carried them through hell. You saved them. Now it's your turn. You can rest."

His throat burned. "I want to believe that."

"Then believe it."

He looked down. Her hand was warm. Steady. Alive. But something inside him recoiled. Her eyes didn't flinch the way April's used to when she lied. She wasn't blinking enough.

She wasn't real.

Dan's voice hardened. "She never said any of that. Not like this. Not to me."

Her expression faltered.

The illusion flickered – just for a breath. The light from the window dimmed. A slow creak echoed through the walls.

"You want me to stay here," Dan said, voice low. "You want me soft. Tired. At peace."

April's smile returned but it was strained now. Stretched.

"This is a kindness," she said. "After all your pain."

Dan rose slowly, chair scraping the floor behind him. "Pain keeps me honest. Pain means I still remember."

The kitchen trembled.

Her voice grew smaller. "Don't leave me again…"

He stepped back, shaking. "You're not my sister. And I don't need mercy from a ghost."

The light imploded. The warmth turned to ash. April's face twisted into something empty and grey as the illusion shattered like glass.

And Dan stood alone again.

Breathing hard. But awake.

…………………

Heat. Smoke. Screams.

Victor staggered through red sand, rifle in hand, boots sinking in the loose dirt. Gunfire cracked across the dunes. Helicopter blades roared overhead. Dust blew into his mouth with every ragged breath.

The desert was on fire.

He knew this place.

Damascus, 2015.

The worst day of his life.

"Drake! Drake!"

He turned.

Marcus stumbled toward him – blood pouring from a torn thigh, helmet missing, face caked in dirt and fear. "Don't leave me! Not again!"

Victor's gut twisted. He blinked, disoriented. No – this isn't right. Marcus had been on the ridge when it hit. There hadn't been time. No way to reach him.

But here he was. Screaming. Limping. Alive.

"Vic, help me!" Marcus collapsed to his knees, hand outstretched, shaking. "You said we had each other's backs!"

Victor's feet moved on instinct. Training and guilt fused in a violent current. He dropped to one knee, grabbed Marcus's shoulder, gripped hard.

His friend's skin was too cold.

"Come on, I've got you," Victor muttered. "Stay with me."

The world blurred. Gunfire dimmed. The smoke thinned.

Just him. Marcus. A broken moment that never had a second chance.

"You left me there," Marcus whispered.

Victor flinched.

"You climbed the ridge. You didn't even turn back."

"I had orders," Victor growled, throat tight.

"You chose them over me."

"I had a squad to lead. If I'd come back for you, we'd all be dead."

"And I died anyway."

The silence cut deeper than any bullet.

Victor closed his eyes.

He'd lived this guilt in dreams. In quiet bars. In the wilderness. In the silence between firefights. Always replaying that decision. Always wondering if it made him a coward or a leader.

He looked up. Marcus's face flickered – subtly wrong now. Eyes too hollow. Jaw just slightly misaligned.

This wasn't his brother-in-arms.

"You're not Marcus," Victor muttered.

"I was real once."

"Yeah. And I let you die."

Victor stood, slow and heavy.

"But if I stay here?" His voice darkened. "If I believe this? Then I bury everyone I've saved since. And that ain't happening."

The desert trembled. A sudden wind kicked up dust, but Marcus didn't blink. Didn't move.

Victor reached down, picked up his rifle – not to shoot, but to remember.

He met the thing's gaze. "I left a man behind. I won't make that mistake again."

Marcus didn't scream this time. He just whispered – low and spiteful:

"Then leave me again."

Victor didn't look back.

"I already did."

He turned his back.

The world cracked open behind him. Voices howled. Sand turned to shadow. The heat vanished.

Victor walked on, alone, but clear-eyed.

…………………

The heat hit her first.

Dry. Heavy. Choking.

Dust swirled across cracked concrete. Vendors shouted in Arabic over buzzing flies. The scent of sweat, spice, and engine oil clung to the air like a film.

Atikah Varma stood barefoot in the middle of a Qatari street market. Years later she'd simply be called Alpha. But now – just young Atikah.

Her stomach clenched.

No… not again.

Her hands were smaller. Rougher. Bandaged. She looked down – torn shoes. Scabbed knees. The body of a girl barely thirteen. Dirty. Thin. Unseen.

She turned and froze.

A bearded man towered above her, one hand gripping her wrist like a vise. In his other, a rusted machete gleamed under the sun.

"Thief," he spat in Arabic, dragging her into the crowd. "You want to steal from me? I'll take the hand that did it."

A circle had formed. Tight. Hungry.

Faces blurred by time, but their silence was the same. Indifference. Judgment. Not one hand raised to stop it.

She struggled, but the grip only tightened. Her arm burned.

"Please," she whispered. "I was hungry."

No one moved.

The machete rose.

Then—"Let her go."

The crowd parted.

A boy, maybe fifteen. Tall for his age. Confident. Clean shirt. Eyes too sharp for someone so young.

Omar Ahmed.

Omega.

He stepped forward with the poise of a prince, one hand raised in calm command.

"You cut her," he said to the vendor, "and my uncle will shut this market down by morning."

The man hesitated.

"She's nothing," he growled.

"She's under my protection."

The vendor's grip faltered.

Omar reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash – new bills, folded clean. "This covers it."

He tossed the bundle at the man's chest, caught Atikah's wrist gently, and pulled her into the alley.

She remembered how fast her heart beat. Not from fear. From something else. Something dangerous.

He didn't say anything after that. Just handed her a bottle of water and sat beside her in the shade. Two strangers in silence.

He never asked why she stole. She never asked why he helped.

And he never touched her again.

Back then, she hadn't believed in mercy. But she believed in him.

She blinked.

And they were back in that alley – only now, he was older. The Omega she knew. Black fatigues. Hard eyes. The body of a killer. But the boy's warmth was still there, just beneath the armour.

"You stayed angry," he said softly. "You built yourself into a weapon."

"No one else would," she replied.

"But you never came back."

"I couldn't."

He tilted his head. "Then why are you here now?"

Atikah's lips parted. She didn't have an answer.

He stepped closer. "You could stay."

His hand reached for hers – gentle. Forgiving. Real.

She stepped forward, hand rising slowly… Then stopped.

Her fingers hovered inches from his.

No scars. No calluses. Just soft skin that hadn't earned anything.

Her chest tightened.

This wasn't her. This wasn't him.

"You're not him."

Silence.

"You look like him. But he never offered. Not like this."

She stepped back.

"You're just doubt in a pretty mask."

The alley collapsed.

Omar's face unravelled into static, swallowed by the fog. The walls cracked. The sun vanished.

She stood alone again.

Older. Stronger. Eyes stinging.

She whispered into the emptiness, "He didn't need me to stay. He needed me to survive."

And she walked forward, into the dark.

…………………

One by one, they had chosen the truth.

But the mist did not retreat. It only grew still.

Waiting.

It had saved its cruellest illusion for last.

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