When I find the chamber, the door seals behind me with a hiss. The lighting drops to amber. I smell fear, blood, and something that makes my pulse spike.
On the far wall, a glowing sigil appears—a stylized labyrinth, the logo ofMonstrous Mazes.My snarl deepens. I’ve seen this before. Not in this place, but on a stolen datapad, once, years ago. It was a game. A human’s game. Some upstart prodigy designed it.
Husker didn’t build this maze.
Hestoleit.
That thought sits heavy in my chest, heavier than the armor plating still fused to my ribs. Because whoever made this thing knew how to manipulate the human brain. Every pattern, every light shift, every scent—engineered to trigger emotion. Anticipation. Panic. Despair. A maze built tofeedoff suffering.
The speaker crackles. Dirk again, gleeful and manic. “Oh, don’t look so serious! It’s just a little fun! Besides, the audience loves you already, Reaper. Look—your kill metrics are spiking! You haven’t evendoneanything yet!”
“I will,” I promise softly, to no one and everyone.
The walls shift again, revealing a window—one-way glass. Beyond it, I see movement: a group of players moving cautiously through the next corridor. One of them is small, human, blondehair tangled, jaw tight with defiance. She’s snapping at a larger man, pointing at the wall, making calculations in midair with her fingers. She’sthinking.
I should look away. I don’t.
Something about her stance—it’s all edges and light. Like she’s already mapping her own survival.
I watch as she leads the others forward, arguing, commanding, her voice muffled through the glass. Then a mechanical hiss fills the chamber. One of the walls starts closing on them. Panic breaks the group. Two civilians bolt the wrong way. The panel under them turns red, then—boom. Gone. Just gone.
The blonde doesn’t flinch.
She pushes the survivors through an open door, yelling something I can’t hear. The door seals, and she’s gone from view.
The Maze Master chuckles in my ear. “She’s clever, that one. Thinks she can beat me at my own game. I might have to bump her up the leaderboard.”
“Her name,” I growl. “What’s her name?”
“Why?” Dirk purrs. “You planning to eat her?”
I bare my teeth at the camera. “Planning to make her watch while I end you.”
“Ohhh, I like you,” he sings. “Keep talking like that—you’re testingsowell with the audience!”
The feed dies again, and silence fills the space.
I lean against the wall, dragging one claw down its surface. Sparks flare where metal gives way. My blood hums with violence, but under it, something colder coils in my gut. A flicker of recognition I can’t explain.
Whoever she is—the blonde with the bright eyes—she doesn’t belong here any more than I do.
But that’s the thing about monsters like me.
Once I find something worth keeping, I don’t let it die.
CHAPTER 3
LIORA
Dirk Husker’s cartoon face flickers off the screen, and the silence that follows isn’t peace—it’s pressure. The air hums like static, full of tension and recycled oxygen. You cantastethe fear in it. Burnt ozone and human sweat.
Borzen Kain is the first to move.
“Roles?” he growls, metallic voice grinding like a bad motor. He’s half machine, half nightmare, the kind of guy who could probably rip a tank in half just to see if it bleeds. His one good eye glows dull red under the flickering light.
The console in the center of the room lights up, displaying words in blocky, glowing letters:
PLAYER ROLES ASSIGNED.
