I press my hand to the fresh carving, blood mixing with circuitry. The maze hums in irritation, like a beast flicking its tail. I smile, sharp and humorless.
“Your move, Dirk.”
The walls shift again, faster now, less graceful. He’s angry. Good.
I move with them, letting the maze’s rhythm carry me through new corridors. The architecture changes as I go—metal gives way to glass, glass to some kind of living resin that pulses faintly when I touch it. The hum under my feet grows deeper, almost like a heartbeat.
I realize then—the maze is feeding.
Every death, every scream—it’s power. He’s building energy through suffering.
He’s not just broadcasting for fun. He’sharvesting.
It makes sense. It’s what monsters like him do. The Maze isn’t a game.
It’s a farm.
And we’re all cattle.
A vent bursts open ahead of me, spewing out thick black smoke. I crouch, instinct sharp, scanning for motion. My hearing picks up the faintest sound—footsteps. Not human. Lighter. Faster. A maintenance drone. I catch its shape as it darts from one wall panel to the next, welding something. Reinforcing the maze.
I grab it mid-leap.
It squeals in binary. I crush it until its light dies.
A fragment of its memory core falls free, still glowing. I pocket it. Information might be the only weapon sharper than claws.
Then I keep moving.
For hours—maybe minutes, maybe days—the maze guides me downward. The concept of time doesn’t survive here. It blurs, melts, loops.
But something’s changing.
The lights grow dimmer. The air heavier. I can taste humidity now, mixed with oil and blood. The walls glisten like flesh, warm under my palms. I don’t like it. Not because it’s alive—because it’slistening.
Itknowsme now.
And it’s afraid.
I find another door, marked with symbols that look suspiciously like my own script. Not quite right, though. Mimicked. Stolen. Husker’s signature is all over it—like a parasite trying to imitate its host.
The lock clicks open for me automatically.
Inside is a narrow corridor lined with mirrors.
They reflect everything but me.
“Cute trick,” I mutter.
The mirrors ripple. Husker’s voice echoes, bouncing from every surface. “Ever wonder what you look like to them, Reaper? To the humans? The civilians? The little game designer?”
Each mirror flickers—images of me slaughtering. Me roaring. Me drenched in blood. Memories twisted out of sequence. A monster.
“Do you think she’ll love that?” Dirk whispers. “Do you think yourmatewill still look at you the same once she sees what you really are?”
I smash the nearest mirror. The sound is deafening. Shards fly. Some cut deep into my arm. I don’t care.
“Better she fears me,” I snarl, “than dies like the rest.”
