Dave's breath was slightly ragged as he reached out and placed a firm hand on Barry's shoulder, trying to gently turn him away from the strange building. His gut hadn't stopped screaming since they'd found the place, and it only got worse the longer they lingered near that black cube with the eerie white hemisphere embedded in one side.

To Dave's relief, Barry began to move—turning just slightly, blinking as if waking from a deep dream.

Good, Dave thought. He's coming back to his senses.

Then Barry jerked.

In one sudden motion, he tore his shoulder free from Dave's grip, stumbling forward. His outstretched hand landed flat on the white dome.

"Barry!" Dave gasped, heart lurching into his throat.

Barry blinked again, slower this time. His palm rested against the smooth, pale surface like it belonged there. His posture had gone still, almost statue-like. Dave felt frozen in place, eyes locked on his new mate's back, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

A minute passed. Or maybe it was only seconds. The wind whistled gently past, the silence heavy around them.

Then Barry spoke.

"I wonder if I have to turn it or something?"

Then he stepped back.

His hand slipped free from the hemisphere without resistance. Nothing happened. No noise, no light, no eerie pulses of energy. Just silence.

Dave released a long-held breath and let his shoulders sag. His pulse began to settle from its frantic pace.

In confused disbelief, he asked, "Did… nothing happen?"

Barry slowly shook his head. "I really thought something would happen."

"Yeah, mate—me too. My every instinct was telling me not to touch that thing. It felt wrong. Wrong in a way I don't have words for."

Barry looked over at him, his brow furrowed with quiet conflict. "Really? Because for me… it was the opposite. Every fibre of my body wanted to touch that white part. Like I had to."

They both turned their gaze back toward the black cube and its seamless white dome.

After a long silence of looking between each other and then the cube, they went back to it.

Together, they began testing the surface—first one hand each, then both at once. They pressed their palms into the dome, slid their fingers along the divide between the white and black materials. Barry even put one hand on the white and the other on the black, half-expecting some reaction. They pushed. Pulled. Tried to twist the hemisphere like a doorknob. Nothing gave.

Not even a creak.

Eventually, Dave leaned back, brushing his palms together and giving the dome one last suspicious glare.

"Well… I'm actually relieved it didn't do anything."

Barry huffed, frustrated. "Yeah, well, I'm not. This thing feels important. Like it's meant for something. Maybe it's broken. Or maybe we're not doing it right."

Dave rolled his eyes. "Mate, now you're talking like it's a magic door in a fantasy novel."

Barry didn't reply. He just kept staring at the white dome with a gnawing frustration behind his eyes.

Eventually, Dave nudged him with an elbow. "C'mon, Bazza. You promised me a quick look. We did that. Time to get back to the real world before we accidentally wake up some ancient alien AI or something."

Barry hesitated. Then, with clear reluctance, he nodded.

They turned and began the slow walk back toward the truck, leaving behind the silent black cube in the middle of the untouched bushland—its strange white hemisphere catching the cold light like the eye of something waiting, watching, and very, very patient.

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The tundra stretched out around them in long, rolling hills dotted with brittle bushes and the occasional wind-swept stone. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground as Zane, Tarni, and Lily trudged onward.

Their boots crunched softly in the frostbitten soil. Each breath left a trail of mist behind, curling and fading into the dry, cold air. Silence reigned, save for the occasional gust of wind or the low rustle of movement from something unseen in the distance.

Zane glanced up at the ridge ahead and sighed. "I think we should give it thirty more minutes of looking, then go back to the mine."

Tarni, walking a few paces ahead, turned back with a raised eyebrow. "Did we bring any torches?"

Lily, at the rear, frowned. "You mean flashlights?"

"Yeah."

"Nah," Zane replied, shrugging. "None of the batteries worked, remember? I tried charging 'em off the generator, but they were cactus."

Tarni scratched the back of his head. "What about the burny kind?"

"You mean, like, torches made of wood and cloth?"

"Yeah. Old-school. Fire-on-a-stick style."

Zane hesitated, then shook his head. "Not really. I guess we could make some, but I didn't think we'd need them this soon."

Lily huffed and adjusted the strap of her pack. "Well, since we don't have proper lighting for the mine, maybe we keep looking a bit longer than thirty minutes. Only go back there if we really have to."

Zane considered her suggestion, then nodded. "Fair call. It's going to be real dark in there, and we're crawling through narrow shafts with no light, that's a death trap."

"Agreed," Tarni said. "And I'm not dying in a cave in the ass-end of a frozen dungeon."

They shared a grim chuckle, the sound short-lived and swallowed quickly by the open land.

Their path curved around a stony rise, the kind of hill that broke the wind just enough to give false hope of warmth. As they crested it, a sudden burst of movement caught their attention.

A herd of caribou.

Dozens of them exploded into motion across the shallow valley below, their wide hooves kicking up snow and frost as they bounded through the low scrub. Their antlers cut striking silhouettes against the fading sky, and for a moment, all three of them stopped to watch.

"Bloody hell," Tarni muttered. "Never seen so many at once and look at that big one at the front."

Zane tilted his head. "I wonder if they're running from something."

Lily gave him a wary glance. "Or someone."

They watched the herd vanish into the northern hills, the last flickers of movement swallowed by the land.

Then the wind picked up again—low and steady, carrying the scent of cold rock, dry plants, and the distant musk of animals.

Zane checked the time on his system display and muttered, "It's only been just over four hours, and it's starting to get dark already." Then with a clap of his hands, he continued, "Right. Let's cover as much ground as we can before the light really goes. We're bound to stumble on something eventually."

Tarni adjusted the strap on his machete. "Yeah. I don't want to know what happens if we don't find the Boss before the time runs out."

The three of them pressed on into the hills, their silhouettes trailing behind them as the light began its slow fade to dusk.

The Giant Brown Bear was miffed.

This was his valley. His tundra. His perfect patch of summer sun where the snow melted just enough to reveal warm stones and dry ground. He loved this time of year—there was far less ice to slog through, and food came easy. Plump hares darted from bushes, fat birds rested too long in the open, and the rivers churned with slow fish just begging to be swiped.

But today… today had promised something special.

He had been stalking a large herd of those brown things. The ones with stick-hats. Caribou. Stupid-looking creatures with their gangly legs and forest strapped to their heads. When he was a cub, the herd had given him grief—once, he'd taken an antler to the eye, and though it hadn't blinded him, it sure had stung. But now? Now their stick-hats broke harmlessly against his hide.

He was bigger. Older. Wiser. Hungrier.

Especially for that one. The big one. The thick-necked beast with a scar over one eye and legs like tree trunks. Oh, he'd had his eye on that one for over an hour, slowly circling the herd from downwind, patient as the hills. The others milled and grazed, oblivious. But he watched. He drooled. He could already taste the meat, hot and steaming beneath fur and fat.

Just a few more paces.

He shifted his weight silently behind a jagged outcrop, muscles rippling under thick brown fur. His dark eyes narrowed. The big one was grazing near a frost-slicked rock. Just one step forward, and he'd be within range to charge. One clean burst of speed, one bone-snapping paw swipe, and dinner would be served.

Then it happened.

The wind didn't shift.

There was no warning. No noise. No scent of predator or rival.

But something spooked the herd.

With a sudden, thunderous burst, the entire group bolted—cloven hooves pounding the ground in a chaotic stampede. The big one led the charge, bellowing as he vanished over a nearby ridge. Dust and snow kicked up in a frenzy, and just like that, the dream was gone.

The bear stomped forward from behind his rock, huffing through flared nostrils. He snorted and slammed a paw into the earth, scattering stones. His mouth snapped once in frustration. He'd been so close.

He stood there for a while, shoulders heaving, head turning slowly across the valley. Nothing moved now. Nothing but the whispering wind and the echo of fleeing prey.

He growled.

Summer had been good so far—but this?

This was personal.

And something in the air felt… off. There had been no threat. No movement. Just a strange boom earlier in the distance. It hadn't spooked him, but maybe the caribou had known something he didn't.

With one last grunt, he turned, heading toward the hills where the herd had gone. But he would not forget this place, nor the meal he had lost.

He would find it again. And this time, nothing would stop him.

Then, a faint clap echoed across the tundra—soft, distant, and sharp. It came from just beyond a small ridge to his left.

His ears twitched. Was that what had spooked his prey?

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