Chapter 8

High above, in the sterile observation room, the man in the ant mask—the Golden Ant—watched with a kind of twisted amusement, the kind that only comes when you already know the ending. His mask gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, its metallic mandibles catching the reflection of the glass pane that overlooked the scene below.

A smug grin curled beneath the metal. "He has no idea, does he?" His voice dripped with satisfaction as if the whole thing had already played out in his head, and he was just here to watch the pieces fall into place.

The woman in the red dress didn't turn to look at him. Didn't even acknowledge the question. She remained poised, effortlessly relaxed yet commanding, positioned over the control panel like a spectator with a reserved seat to an exclusive show. Her nails painted a deep red, hovered over the console.

"We're expecting company tomorrow," she said, her voice steady, carrying the weight of certainty. Not a guess. Not a warning. Just a simple fact, laid out like an inevitability.

She didn't care for the 'Golden Ant's' amusement. He was reacting. She was orchestrating.

"You should get some rest," she murmured, smooth, unreadable. Not a suggestion. Not even a command.

Just a truth waiting to unfold.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

And the boy below?

He didn't have a fucking clue.

I woke up in my bed.

The sheets were soft, impossibly soft, wrapping around me like a cloud spun from silk. The air was thick with the scent of lavender, sweet and heavy, curling through the open window. Outside, crickets sang in perfect harmony, their chirps blending into a melody so rhythmic, so precise, it felt composed.

I blinked.

Everything felt right. More than right. Flawless.

The bed dipped just the way it always had, molded to my shape like it had been waiting for me. Sunlight poured through the curtains in golden beams, pooling onto the wooden floor in warm puddles of light. Dust motes drifted lazily in the glow, moving like tiny suspended stars in a universe of stillness.

A small smile crept onto my face as I stretched. My body felt light, effortless, whole. No aches. No hunger gnawing at my ribs. Just warmth, sinking into my bones like I had never known pain to begin with.

"Arthur, get ready for school!"

Ma's voice rang out from the kitchen, warm and familiar, laced with the kind of unconditional love that made the world feel unshakable. Just like every other morning.

I pushed back the blankets and slid my feet onto the floor. I padded to the bathroom, my footsteps silent against the chill of the tiled floor. It was grounding, a small anchor to reality.

The mirror greeted me with my reflection—normal, whole, untouched. No scars. No shadows lingering in my eyes. No weight pressing down on my shoulders. Just me.

I reached for my toothbrush, fingers grazing over the familiar ridges of the handle. The bristles curved perfectly, fitting against my teeth like they had been crafted just for me.

The first taste of mint—cool, clean, bright—spread across my tongue, fizzing into a soft foam. It was sharp, and refreshing, a taste so familiar it felt sacred.

For a moment, I let myself sink into it.

Let myself believe.

But the moment snapped like a taut wire suddenly cut.

A tiny, sharp sting pricked the edge of my tongue. At first, it was nothing. Just a small irritation, a fleeting discomfort. But it spread. A slow burn, creeping under my skin.

I spat into the sink. The mint was gone, replaced by something bitter, metallic, curling at the back of my throat. My tongue flicked over the sore spot, searching, and that's when I felt it.

The blister.

Just a bump at first. Insignificant. But the pain sank in, rooted itself deeper, unfolding like fire over dry wood. It didn't stay contained—it grew, spread, like something alive. My stomach twisted a sharp clench, the kind of tension that coils in your gut when you know something isn't right.

The air shifted. Tightened. The room contracted, pressing inward, making everything smaller, and heavier.

Then, the mirror wavered—just for a second, like a ripple over glass. Not a trick of the eye. A malfunction in something I hadn't realized was running me. Like reality itself had stuttered. A breath caught in its throat.

The walls quivered, almost imperceptibly at first, like a ripple disturbing still water. The floor let out a deep, groaning exhale beneath my feet. A pulse—steady, rhythmic. Like something beneath the tiles had just woken up.

A thin crack splintered across the mirror. A delicate fracture, barely there. It didn't explode outward, didn't shatter—not yet. It simply appeared, sudden and unnatural, like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

But the longer I stared, the more it spread—crawling, branching, weaving itself through my reflection like veins under sickly pale skin. The edges of the crack pulsed, vibrating ever so slightly, as if something beneath the surface was pushing outward, stretching the glass too thin.

My reflection tore apart, severed straight down the middle. It wasn't just cracked; it was broken. Glass shifted, edges grinding against one another. The room lurched. The sink trembled beneath my grip. Walls stretched, folding like a world built on paper, now crumpling in on itself.

The handwash bottle toppled over. A thick, dark red liquid oozed from its mouth, spilling across the tiles. It moved too slowly, weaving into the grout, threading through the cracks.

The light above hiccupped.

Then, it curdled.

The warm, golden glow collapsed into something sickly, something twisted and off-color like sunlight passed through diseased air. The scent of lavender vanished entirely.

I gripped the sink, knuckles whitening. "Ma!" My voice hit the air, but it wasn't right—it bent, stretched as if the sound itself had warped like it had been processed through a broken machine before reaching my ears.

The dream didn't fade. It didn't unravel.

It was extracted. Violently.

Like it had never been mine to begin with.

And suddenly—

I was back.

The ground felt lifeless beneath me, stiff and artificial, like it had forgotten how to be grass. The air was thick with rot, pressing into my lungs like a damp cloth.

I sat on the same bench, the imprint of its rough, gritty texture carved into my legs like a brand. Deep reddish ridges, grooves pressing into my skin. A souvenir from a world that refused to let me go.

I clenched my fists, feeling my nails dig into my palms.

It had all been a lie. A mirage. Dangling what I could never have, what I could never return to.

The shift between the two worlds had been like being dropped into a fishbowl after tasting the ocean. A cruel sign that I didn't belong anywhere.

I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek, feeling the sore spot where the blister sat.

The only thing that came back with me. The only proof that what just happened had been real.

Or maybe…

Maybe the pain was just another trick.

I scratched my head, my fingers shaking as they moved through greasy, tangled hair. My stomach twisted, my entire body weighed down by something heavy, suffocating.

The playground stretched out before me, unchanged.

But I knew better now.

Nothing here stayed the same.

So why should I?