The sky above was bleeding data, torn clouds glitching like corrupted memories. The old arena, once radiant with life and laughter, now stood sunken into silence, empty like something holy had died here. Brighteyes stood at the edge, her scarf fluttering in pixelated breeze, her hand resting lightly on the hilt at her side. Her shutter shades were cracked—one lens gone completely—and through the broken pane, her eyes shimmered with something between disbelief and dread. She had followed the message like a moth to a flame, like a widow chasing her ghost. Shedletsky’s here. That was all it took. Even after all these years. Even after the silence. Her heart betrayed her logic—because despite everything, she wanted to believe. To pretend, just for one second, that this wasn’t a trick. That he had come back. That he remembered July 5th. That he remembered her.

He stood in the center of the arena like a statue carved from nightmare—tall, unreadable, cold. That black cloak curled around his feet like smoke, and the coffin strapped to his back radiated with a sickly green hum that scraped at the edges of her thoughts. She couldn’t breathe right. He looked like Shedletsky, but too perfect, too still, like a replica made by someone who didn’t quite understand what love was supposed to feel like. And yet—he sounded like him. When he spoke, her knees went weak: “Come to your husband.” Her breath caught. Her chest ached. That word broke something in her. But her instincts screamed beneath the surface—don’t move. Don’t you dare move. Then he said it, softer this time. A coax. A trap wrapped in silk. “C’mon. Don’t you trust me?” Her foot hovered over broken stone, trembling. She didn’t answer—because if she spoke, she might shatter.