Of six, only four survived the psychological world.

  They woke in that swamping darkness, sprawled across the ground as if torn from a distant nightmare. Ian's mind was a muddled mess, staring up into an abyss of black as his limbs slumped against the bitter cement.

  He could see her body falling. Shattering at the end of the stairs.

  He could see the car's excruciating headlights and the frail body flung across the street. He could hear the peppering rain and horrible pleas as William plunged to his death.

  Suddenly, a movement jerked near him, and the skinny Esper scrambled to his feet, panting. His chest rose and fell, choked. "Where is she?" Luis whispered.

  "Where is she?" he demanded again, his voice feeble and wavering, as a sob wrenched out of his throat. He looked like a man possessed, scrambling to the other rooms and digging through corpses of previously killed creatures.

  Claret soaked his skin and clothes, but he continued desperately. "I saved her, I did! I'm sure I saved her in time!"

  He sank to his knees, hunching over the bodies. A wail tore out of him. Nearby, William groggily pushed himself up, staring dazedly at his palms. When his gaze swept sideways, meeting Ian's, he flinched.

  Avoidance. It seemed only natural.

  Ian averted his eyes, and William hesitated before drawing a deep breath. He carefully approached the grieving man, who illustrated an inconsolable sight, raked in grime and exhaustion.

  "What are you searching for?" asked William softly. "I may be able to help."

  The Esper clawed at his thighs, eyes wild. Pupils shaking. "My daughter! My flesh and blood—I birthed her! I endured all that!"

  William blanched, startled as he slowly processed the words. His head whirled to mouth it to Ian, who nodded grimly. He coughed, nudging away a chicken-like carcass, and tentatively reminded:

  "Sir. I'm sorry, but whatever you're remembering no longer exists here. The child you... birthed only exists in that illusion."

  Luis clutched his face, shaking his head profusely. For him, the illusion had persisted for five years before he recognized any abnormalities. Freshly imprinted into his skull, he recalled every detail, every sight.

  He remembered it all, as clearly as he registered the present.

  There, he participated in an undergrad student's experimental program, which later resulted in a kidnapping. He'd been the lofty CEO of a pharmaceutical company, and how dare they flip the tables on him?

  How dare they subject him to such dehumanizing treatments?

  His mind knotted until logical and personality was swiftly stolen from him, and he was forced through the agonizing process of labour. He gave birth through cesarean section, thrashing through unbearable pain.

  But the result had been an adorable little girl who hugged him. Her beaming smile was like a thousand suns and made him feel like a saint.

  Perhaps they were locked for eternity in that underground space. But they had each other.

  Until the day a beautiful young woman entered. Pity in her dark eyes.

  She was a familiar face, and he couldn't pinpoint why.

  "Allow me to help you, sir," she said softly as she unlocked the enclosed room. She reached for his child, who screamed and darted away. "Please. I want to help you."

  Luis had jumped on her violently, swinging fists as his vision ran red. A needle was crudely jammed into his neck, and he toppled sideways. His cheek slammed against the ground, and curses hissed through his wobbling voice.

  That woman. That researcher—

  "That demoness!" he hisses, dragging his nails down his cheeks. Red veins popped in his frenzied eyes. "She died, she died here! Why was she there? The accursed Strelitzia—"

  And energy spiked. A flare of heat, searing and licking at flesh.

  It came from Ian.

  Ian staggered to a stand, like a disjointed marionette, head hanging low. Overgrown hair covered his face as his energy prickled on the surface of his skin.

  "What did you say?" One crisp tap against the ground, and mania intensified. His voice was grating and chilling. "I asked you a question. What did you say?"

  Something abnormal was humming in the air. A poison, a disease. William hesitated and withdrew carefully—but Luis remained, muttering to himself like a madman. Reality and illusion had mixed, making him a fool.

  "That girl, that girl, that girl—! How dare that useless Guide interfere!"

  And suddenly, Ian was there. His arm snapped out, snatching the man's collar as he hauled him up. Luis thrashed, grasping for release as a blue tint crawled up his face. But Ian's grip didn't cease. "Who died?" he wondered again. A demand. "Say it again. Say her name."

  "Ian," called out William hesitantly.

  But he didn't care about the other's conflict management, not right now.

  The Esper garbled incoherently. "She was supposed to die in Project... 311! She died, they made sure of it!"

  An uncontrollable heat was hissing in the constricted space, coiling against the walls. Slithering along the floors. Sweat beaded on their skin, a humidity suffocating the oxygen.

  "Ian!" exclaimed William again, gasping. He dropped to a knee, wheezing.

  Ian's grip only tightened until his knuckles whitened with strain. The heat was terrible. Excruciating. And he didn't give a damn, even if his bones dissolved, melting into rivers of blood that spanned the apocalypse.

  A scream pathetically attempted to worm out of the man's throat, his struggles growing violent. Desperately scratching at Ian's unyielding arms.

  But he was nothing compared to Ian.

  Ian and his vengeance.

  Blisters bloomed across the man's scaled skin, hideous, boiling shapes. "Project 311," said Ian. "What was Project 311?"

  Luis gasped like a fish out of water, and Ian tossed him against the ground. Into the pile of corpses. Before the Esper could scramble for purchase, Ian bent and grabbed him by the face, fingers leaving bruising indents.

  "Answer me!" he demanded.

  And a string of information came back in sobbing garbles.

  With each word, Ian's expression darkened in severity. Project 289: the Guide Raising Program. It started to ensure the continued production of Guides to sustain the increasing population of Espers, which grew at a faster rate.

  In combination, a second project was being developed.

  Project 311. Guide Farm.

  Research uncovered properties within a Guide's blood that could temporarily serve as a medicine to Espers. The effects were less than regular guiding, but blood was a product they could retrieve an endless supply of.

  After all, it allowed them to keep the product alive and harvest a regular supply of blood.

  All colour leeched from Ian's face as he trembled, releasing the Esper. Eloise, shortly before her last excursion, had a waxen complexion. She'd lost weight.

  Of course, he noticed. He insisted she take a break, but she had pursed her lips and told him she was unable to.

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  The temperature soared to unberable heats. Ian lifted a shaking hand to his face.

  Behind him, hands suddenly circled his waist, forcefully drawing him against a cold chest. Simultaneously, a palm covered his vision. It injected a chill that came soothing against the raging fire, writhing in his gut.

  It was like giving a staved man a morsel; a drowned man a breath.

  Ian released a sharp breath, slumping back. The heat receded obediently, although it lingered, embedded in the narrow walls.

  Luis collapsed in a heap, boils festering along his mangled flesh as tears and snot smeared across his face. He shuddered, shrinking away as he gaped at Ian. Fear and humiliation waltzed in his gaze, no longer as arrogant as it once was.

  Victor's attention had fallen to the immobile body in his arms. Perfectly fitted.

  It'd belonged there for so many days, and to be without it felt strangely discomforting. Frost sparked off Victor as he traced the remnants of heat.

  His gaze was predatory, like a beast analyzing its prey. As if wondering if it wanted to devour the target it ensnared, or to protect it.

  "Restrain him! Make him suffer as he did to me, those damn Guides!" snarled Luis through a rasp as he clutched his throat. He scrambled onto blistering hands and knees. "I've seen you. You're part of the Center's main—"

  An ice needle shot past his cheek. It carved an incision against his cheek, and the man howled. "How dare you!? How could you betray—"

  "Betray," interrupted Victor curtly, though he smiled, "requires my allegiance. And I do not recall pledging that to anybody."

  The body in his arms stiffened. Then, Ian grabbed his hand, drawing it away from his face.

  "Let me go," said Ian hoarsely.

  Silence twisted around them for seconds too long. Too long before Victor replied with a low, musing hum. "I am not feeling particularly inclined to do so."

  "Like I give a damn what you want," sneered Ian, forcefully yanking away. His cheeks carried a flush from the earlier surge, as if he'd devoured all the energy in the room and bottled it within him. "What a waste of time. I'll deal with it later."

  The 'it' in question, Luis, trembled instinctively at the reminder of his wounds.

  William, who had long retreated after failing to call Ian, popped his head back into the room. He blinked. "If you're done, I found a tally on the wall. I checked the others, and they all have it, but this one has six."

  He paused, tilting his head. "Are you done?"

  Ian nodded, dismissing the mess that remained. The stench of charred flesh. He passed the exit, stopping beside William. "Hey. I'm—"

  "Don't be," interrupted William, offering a wry smile. "I would have died irritated if I chose a tarantula over Sylvan. They're both cute, but I prefer two-way communication. And, I'm pretty sure he'd come by to give me a beating."

  A small smile cracked on Ian's face. "With his wooden spoon?"

  "What else but that almighty weapon of his?" grinned William.

  Their gazes locked briefly before they bent their heads and laughed. One was an amused smile, rarely given, and the other a lighthearted chuckle.

  The tension between them dissipated. The memories of that event, William's death and Ian's unforgiving aggression, would linger—but nevertheless, they were allies, true as they came.

  And so they found the door, marked by six scrawled lines.

  Ian squinted at it and reached for the handle. It should be the next room, stained in a dark sheen of dried liquid. Blood.

  His eyebrows knitted, and his hand halted midair. He couldn't bring himself to turn the handle.

  Guides, with a particular sensitivity to energy, could vaguely predict the danger threshold relating to an evolved race or Rift-related matters.

  And all of Ian's cells screamed at him to retreat.

  William poked his head over his shoulder, frowning. "Is this the last room? There's another door too, unopened. We're sort of walking backward now, since you opened a different room... wait, I'm confusing myself."

  Ian swerved around, circling to the other rooms. All of them were marked with that tiny scratch, and not a single one exceeded four.

  If somebody wasn't searching for it, then it would have remained unnoticed. They were sporadically placed and seemingly unimportant.

  "Each door has a number," he said slowly, striding back up to where William waited. "We've been unlucky, and that's why we're still stuck. Instead of going up, we've been going up and down."

  Six floors to the orphanage—was it related to that? In that case, then behind this tally of six, what awaited them?

  Ian sighed. His understanding of Rifts remained limited, and the Base made a hobby of hoarding information for themselves.

  "Nothing we can do," he concluded. "Let's go in."

  This time, when he reached out, William grabbed his wrist. Ian glanced sideways. The rest were lingering behind, and Victor continued his role of a useless observer.

  William licked his lips. "I... I just have a bad feeling. You know, it's Sylvan's birthday today, or maybe I've missed it. I had some food in the truck for him. If anything—"

  "If you're giving me your will, then shut up. I won't hear it," scowled Ian.

  "Actually," laughed William wearily, "I made him a bracelet. I had the kids show me how, and it's really ugly, but... have you heard the story of the red string of fate? I thought that maybe—"

  "William." Ian's fingers curled into a fist. "I said I won't hear it."

  But the Esper couldn't stop his rambles, wobbling on the cusp of a sob. "He always acts carefree, but he has a high sense of justice. Sometimes, I feel like he shouldn't be counting the days in Zone-C. He could do more. But, I want him to live as long as he can, so I can't tell him to go."

  Ian pivoted and squished William's face sternly, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Stop raising all these death flags. Any sappy confessions you want to make, tell him later."

  William exhaled, smiling. "You're right. I'll make sure of it."

  For William, the time in the illusion had been 400 days. He'd been kicked out of his house, estranged from his friends who only accompanied him for money, and spent most of the time roaming the streets.

  When darkness swallowed the city, he would curl against the alleyways and as vacancy penetrated his skin. But in his dreams, laughter sang a harmony that his waking days were devoid of.

  All that time, even without remembering, he'd been missing Sylvan.

  The taste of his lips that would curl into a smile against his, the silly teasing that often made little sense, and that pink hair crafted of dreams and everything sweet.

  William remembered it, and when he didn't, he only remembered the absence of it.

  Ian regarded the Esper deeply. Then, he steadied himself before he inhaled and swung the door wide.

  A drop of water plopped into a canvas of pure black. Ripples echoed across the surface.

  A ribbon of luminience cascaded from a narrow gape on the ceiling, and in the center of the shallow lake, curled a barefooted girl. Her bone-like arms hugged her knees, draped in billowing white lace that flutered in the water.

  Raven hair spilled across her shoulders, snaking into the ripples like webs of ink.

  At the resounding creak of the door, her back arched. Her spine protruded from the thin silk as she slowly unfurled.

  Bones cracked, and she unknotted herself onto two thin legs, hovering above the lake's surface. A slow smile stretched across her dainty face, eyes curving in delight.

  Ian stilled. Reaped of his breath.

  Because this was a face that belonged to one he knew. And he remembered it. Her hand that reached for his before she fell, and the glimpse of her crooked limbs at the bottom of blood-soaked steps.

  This was an illusion, he reminded himself.

  Yet memories made fools of the wise.

  Behind him, William staggered against the door frame, eyes snapping wide. He shuddered. He likely saw the same thing—the person he yearned for, with a smile haloed by a phantom light.

  Ian glanced backwards and gritted his teeth. "Wake up, William. This isn't real."

  But none of it seemed to matter.

  The infinite rooms of obscurity and violence, coupled with the psychological games of the illusion, had imprisoned them in a theater of time. Their mental and physical states long collapsed, and logic became futile.

  Ian grabbed William's arm tightly. "William," he warned again, even if his eyes darted helplessly sideways. To her.

  One blink, and the illusion would disappear.

  One blink, and he'd be cemented with the reality of her death. A part of him desperately wanted to accept the falsity of delusions; to find comfort in the lies reality withheld.

  A chill skimmed his cheek, and he barely registered the whistle of wind before the girl screamed. She lurched over, bending at her stomach. Through the delicate lace embedded a sharp icicle, erupting through her backside.

  Thick, murky ink seeped out.

  Victor stepped around Ian, his lawless energy whistling against the surface of his skin. His eyes were suffused in ice, cast by a chilling glow. "Now, I would be disappointed if you fell for such a naive trick."

  The girl's figure flickered, revealing chunks of exposed red flesh, as she switched back and forth between a ghastly creature and a delicate young girl.

  Ian glanced sideways coldly. "And what do you see?"

  Victor smiled. "You."

  At his words, Ian glanced back at the impaled women and raised an eyebrow. "Cut the bullshit. You spent hours beating me up last time."

  "I told you, Ian," said the Esper simply. "I'm especially kind to you. And unlike others, it seems I can tell the difference between a fake."

  The logic was undoubtedly flawed in aspects Ian couldn't explain nor wanted to, because that would require understanding Victor, which was a fool's errand. Nevertheless, it'd snapped Ian back to his senses.

  The girl bent at her stomach, sobbing miserably.

  Every teardrop splashed into the water, ripples chasing her solitary figure as ebony hair pooled beyond her feet.

  He blinked. And the hair spun into piercing skewers, charging toward them. Ian yanked aside the stunned William, whose current vision was an obscure sight of an impaled Sylvan with excessively long hair.

  They slammed into the ground, tumbling. Water soaked their clothes, and William muttered under his breath. "As I expected, he suits long hair too."

  Ian wiped his face, scrunching his nose. He faltered. "That's what's on your mind right now?"

  William sneezed and nodded innocently. "Of course? That thing is wearing my lover's face—I'm complimenting Sylvan, not whatever that is."

  The mind of the young... Ian would never truly understand it.

  Perhaps it was also the combination of their days together and the familiarity from enduring exhaustive battles in the Rift that lowered Williams vigilance. The character he'd seen within that illusion had also been a little silly and carefree.

  Hesitantly, Ian suggested. "Feel more uncomfortable with me."

  "What?" William tilted his head in confusion. "That's not really a choice."

  "Make it one."

  "As I said, that's not how it works—"

  The creature, lacking the virtue of patience, screeched. Her hair clusters surged toward them again. They dove in opposite directions, rolling against the slicked ground. William's feet hardly grazed the floor, and in a blink, he appeared meters away.

  His breath labored as he bent, clutching his knees.

  Ian had encountered several Espers, but the majority within the Rifts he accessed were low-level Espers that could only use certain abilities. Below C-rank, Espers relied on their enhanced physical capabilities rather than their abilities.

  An overdose of energy usage, after all, could lead to death.

  "Two more times," William wheezed, as his lungs burned with an unbearable itch. "Maybe three. That's all the fuel I have. And before you offer, I don't want your guiding right now—your state isn't right for it."

  "I wasn't about to offer."

  William managed a broken chuckle before they turned to face the girl.

  Her crooked body levitated as rivers of hair tangled around her like a spider's web. Then, her head snapped backwards with a sickening crunch, and her jaw unhinged. A shattering screech was emitted, suffused by a murky stench.

  And dozens of hair rushed toward them once more.