Shall We Play a Game?

Two men, cradling Misha and Ru, dashed through moth-scented stairwells and rotting floors. Runes bled from the walls. The sky darkened behind smeared glass, and a frantic wind clawed at the windows, underscoring their urgency.

"Why are we running from the genie?" Chrono huffed as they rounded a moth-eaten corridor, his boots sparking against glowing, black marks left by dead sleepwalkers embedded in the floorboards.

Rider shot back between gasps, "Because we're the idiots who banished it last timeline by rewinding reality, dumbass!"

Killian clutched Ru tighter, the memory of those blue hands penetrating into Ru's flesh flashing behind his eyes. "That thing's not a genie—it's a wound in reality wearing a smile," he hissed. Then, he muttered under his breath, "I hate him."

Rider skidded to a halt at a three-way junction. "Garage?" he panted, tapping the gear-shaped beads woven into his braids. "We could drop a steam carriage on its head."