The Threads Pull

The shimmer ahead wasn't light—not the harsh green of the Heart or the stuttering blue of Liv's sparks. It was softer, a fracture in the dark, like a crack in blackened glass catching the edge of something unseen. My boots scraped against the stone, each step a grind of worn soles on cold, unyielding rock, the sound echoing faintly, swallowed by the Hollow's endless maw. Liv's hand clung to mine, her grip slick with sweat and blood, her fingers trembling but firm, a lifeline in the void. My rifle hung heavy at my side, its barrel still warm, the last of its charge a fading pulse against my thigh. My system stayed quiet—too quiet—its silence a weight of its own, pressing against the hollow ache in my chest where my strength used to live.