“Wasn’t that fun? You just encountered an Echo Wraith. One part ghost, one part psionic monstrosity,” Glitchy trilled, flickering into being and crouching upside-down on nothing, his pixels glittering in the marble light. “Marco’s got himself a little earache. Samantha, a touch of daddy issues. Progress all around.”

  “What the fuck do you want, Glitchy?” Marco snarled, the blood on his neck cold and slick. His headache throbbed in time with his racing pulse.

  “Is that any way to treat your guide, your pal, your confidant?” Glitchy’s grin stretched impossibly wide. “At least you’re feeling something. You can thank me later, when you’re not such a dead-eyed automaton. But for now—” he tapped his temple with a claw—“your boo-boo’s still leaking.”

  Samantha, still pale and reeling from the encounter with her spectral mother, forced her voice steady. “You’ve got the healing spell too, right? Try it.”

  Marco lifted his staff, gritted his teeth, and focused on the technical command. “Heal!” To no surprise, the spell failed. His health bar still sat stubbornly at about three-quarters full. Glitchy cackled, his form tearing into jagged static before vanishing completely.

  “Helpful as always,” Marco spat, throwing his staff to the side in frustration before immediately picking it up again.

  Samantha’s hand rested on Marco’s shoulder, a firm, steady anchor in the chaotic marble hall. Her touch lingered longer than he expected, warmer and more personal than the brief, clinical gestures they usually exchanged. “Think,” she urged, her voice low and direct. “Fire came from anger. What channels healing? What heals you?”

  “Fireball whiskey,” Marco muttered with a crooked, cynical grin, deploying his typical self-deprecating humor to deflect the sudden, uncomfortable intimacy of the question. He wanted to keep this tactical, keep it intellectual.

  Her lips twitched in a rare, genuine moment of shared humor, a brief crack in her “Iron Walls” facade. “Funny. But seriously.” Her eyes, sharp and clear even after facing her spectral mother, searched his. This wasn't an analytical problem; it was a psychological one. “What makes you whole again?”

  The question hit Marco harder than the wraith’s sonic shriek. He started to joke, to list logic, professional victory, or coding success, but the words snagged in his throat. Those lines felt rehearsed and insincere. He realized he was trying to intellectualize an emotional prompt. What truly healed him? Not rage, which destroyed. Not victory, which fled quickly. Not intellectual validation, which only masked the void.

  He searched past the technical jargon and the defense mechanisms. He thought of his isolation, his years dedicated to the project, and his complicity in trapping them both. What was the opposite of that self-imposed isolation? And like a small light in his heart, it dawned on him. It was connection. It was the trust he felt when Samantha, terrified, still obeyed his command to move. It was the rare, profound sense that someone actually gave a damn whether he bled or not. He thought specifically of Samantha charging the Wraith, exposing her deepest shame—her mother’s judgment—to save him from the sonic attack. A profound sense of care had fueled that protective fury.

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  Marco closed his eyes, drawing a deep, ragged breath. He acknowledged the vulnerability, the sudden, unburdened warmth that threaded through the pain and the fear. He focused on the unexpected relief he felt from Samantha’s presence and her concern, channeling the complex feeling of solace and care. He lifted his staff, the wooden tip humming faintly, and whispered the command with the core emotion: “Heal.”

  The result proved immediate and profound. His staff pulsed a vibrant emerald green. A soft, soothing light spiraled down, wrapping around his upper body before sinking into the torn, injured flesh near his ear. The bleeding instantly stopped. A sense of deep, internal coherence replaced the pain. His health bar climbed swiftly, settling back to full. The healing spell wasn't about power; it was about empathy and received care—the psychological counterpart to rage. But casting it drained him, and channeling such emotions, he knew, would be a struggle much greater than finding his inner rage.

  Samantha exhaled, relief washing visibly across her face—a relief Marco caught, studied, and tucked away. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t just his protégé, his brilliant colleague, or his scientific comrade anymore. Maybe she was his partner?

  “So, what’s next?” he asked, feeling the renewed physical strength and the deeper, unsettling emotional shift.

  “We keep moving,” Samantha said, her voice laced with mock excitement that barely masked the terror. “More trauma, more horrors. Can’t wait.”

  The corridor bent sharply, the marble transitioning back into the pale, oppressive mist that defined this judgment area. Another Echo Wraith hovered in the distance, a gray-black shadow waiting to unleash its sonic torment. It hadn’t noticed them yet.

  Marco’s stomach tightened at the memory of his ruptured eardrum, the scream drilling into his skull. “We’ve got to plan. Fireball worked last time, but your sword barely scratched it, and the blast only stopped the sonic assault for a moment.”

  Samantha nodded, her strategic mind already active. “The key is the threshold. When you burned through its hold on me, that’s when I could strike. The magic made the mental trauma physical. If we hit it from a distance before it screams, we might drop it before the sonic attack begins.”

  “Alright. I’ll channel pure destructive anger, maximum-output fireball. You stand ready. You move in after it sustains damage.”

  He raised his staff. The image of past rejections, taunting from bullies, and the fact that he was in this damned world fueled the required fury. The anger rose like a powerful, destructive tide, flowing down his arm and focusing at the staff’s tip. The word tore from his throat—“Fireball!”—and a sphere of flame roared down the corridor, traveling faster and burning hotter than the previous attempt.

  The Wraith shrieked, but the blast’s sheer power instantly muffled the high-pitched sound as the fire engulfed the creature. The flames shifted from angry red to burning blue to white-hot intensity until the specter violently imploded in a burst of heat and silence. Ash rained down, glowing faintly before collapsing entirely into dust.

  Above the remains, text flared briefly in a flash of gold: CRITICAL HIT.

  “Holy shit,” Marco breathed, his eyes wide with a combination of fear and achievement. “Didn’t expect that.” He crouched, brushing through the remains until a small, sealed vial of shimmering powder rose into his hand, a tangible reward for perfect execution.

  “Anything good?” Samantha asked, edging closer, her focus now on the loot.

  Marco read the description aloud. “Wraith Powder. Mixology ingredient.” He arched a brow, a wry half-smile returning to his face. “What, no Fireball whiskey?”