Chapter 7 (continued): Ghost Protocol

Lyra rushed to him. "Are you okay?"

He nodded slowly. "I think... I am now."

The mirrored room flickered around them, light panels dimming and blinking like a dying heartbeat. Cracks ran through the walls, black smoke curling from the shattered remains of the echo-double.

Xander looked down at his hands. They weren't trembling anymore.

"I saw everything," he murmured. "Not just visions. Memories. Thoughts that weren't mine—but also were. That thing... he was more than a reflection. He was a backup. A fail-safe copy of me, shaped by fear and survival."

Lyra helped him steady himself. "So you passed the test?"

"Or failed the warning," he said bitterly.

"Don't say that. You're still here. And whatever that version of you was, it didn't have your heart. Or your choices."

The remnants of the shattered orb pulsed once, a final spark glowing from a rune etched onto one of the fragments. Xander knelt and picked it up.

The symbol flared to life, burning softly into his skin—then faded.

He gasped, but the pain was brief. When he looked again, a thin glyph traced his palm, like a forgotten signature finally rewritten.

> "Protocol imprint complete," a voice whispered into his thoughts. Not from outside—from within.

He stood up. "I think... I've just been granted access."

"To what?"

"I don't know yet. But it's waking."

---

They exited the chamber cautiously, Lyra scanning for any lingering distortions. The silence had returned—but it felt less ominous now. More like the end of a breath held too long.

"The Atrium of Silence," Lyra muttered as they retraced their steps. "It was mentioned in some old black archive I cracked years ago. But I always thought it was a misfiled myth. Supposed to be part of a sanctuary buried under the city, where all rejected Veil circuits were silenced forever."

"A graveyard for failed experiments?" Xander asked.

"More like a tomb for the ones they couldn't control."

Xander winced. "Charming. And now I'm supposed to go there?"

Lyra nodded. "If that recording of you was real, then the Atrium holds whatever you originally locked away. And if Thorne's agents are trying to break it open... you need to get there first."

They reached the spiral light-door that had brought them in. But it pulsed red now.

"Collapse phase," Lyra said grimly. "We overstayed. The Voidkey's gate is cycling down."

Xander didn't hesitate. "Then we run."

---

They sprinted through the corridors, dodging collapsing walls and flickering light panels. The entire structure groaned like something ancient and wounded.

Just as the floor beneath them cracked, Lyra threw the Voidkey ahead. It pulsed—and the light-door snapped open again.

They dove through.

Behind them, the hidden chamber of mirrors collapsed in on itself, folding into a singularity of burning glyphs and vanishing like a dying star.

---

They landed hard in the old transport chamber.

Breathing heavily, Lyra groaned. "Okay... I think we're done finding secret memory-mazes for a while."

Xander sat up, rubbing his ribs. "You say that like you don't have three more on your map."

"I might."

"Figures."

They laughed weakly—then froze as they heard footsteps approaching from the far end of the chamber.

Lyra raised her weapon. This time, it didn't fizzle.

From the shadows, a figure emerged.

Young. Male. Cloaked in ragged patch-armor, goggles perched above wild, storm-dark eyes.

He raised his hands. "Hey. Not here to fight. Name's Veyr. I think... I've been looking for you."

Xander and Lyra exchanged a glance.

"Why?" Xander asked warily.

Veyr hesitated. "Because something called me. A song. It echoed through the Hollow Paths. And it led me to your signature. Yours, Xander Croft. You were glowing."

Xander narrowed his eyes. "You've been tracking me?"

"No. I've been pulled toward you."

Lyra scanned him quickly. "He's got an active psychic weave. Low frequency. But... stable. Oddly attuned."

Veyr nodded. "I don't know what I am anymore. But I know you're the only one who can help me figure it out."

Xander stepped closer. "How do you know my name?"

Veyr looked straight into his eyes. "Because you saved me once. You don't remember—but I do."

Silence stretched.

Then Xander said quietly, "Then let's fix that. You're coming with us."

---

Later, back in one of Lyra's rotating safehouses—this one buried inside a forgotten train car beneath the Echo-Line—they sat around a low table while diagnostic tools buzzed softly in the background.

Veyr explained everything he could remember.

Fragments.

Running through a flooded maze.

Chained in a room where voices whispered through static walls.

A flash of white light.

And Xander's face, reaching through fire.

"You pulled me out. But then someone wiped it. Buried it. I've been living in the hollow cracks ever since. Until tonight."

Xander leaned forward. "Can you show me?"

Veyr nodded. "Echosplice. It lets me connect... emotionally. If I trust you."

Lyra raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to open your mind to him? You just met."

Veyr smiled faintly. "I've known him longer than he thinks."

He extended his hand.

Xander took it.

And the room fell away.

---

It was like diving into a memory rendered in ultraviolet static.

Xander found himself inside a chamber of twisted glass, where broken code etched itself into the air.

There, he saw Veyr—chained, bleeding. And masked figures hovering over him.

And among them... Thorne.

Not as he'd last seen him—but younger. Less monstrous. More human.

"Test the capacity again," Thorne's voice echoed. "This one might survive fusion."

Then another voice cut through. Older. Tired. It was Xander's.

"No. Let him go."

A scuffle. Chaos. Fire. The chains breaking.

And Veyr whispering: "You're real."

Xander gasped as the vision ended.

He staggered back.

"That was me. But from... before. Before I locked it all away."

Veyr wiped his eyes. "I never forgot."

Xander stared at him. "Then you're part of this. More than I knew."

Lyra nodded. "And we just got our third."

"Third?"

She tapped the map. "You'll need more than memory to survive the Atrium. You'll need loyalty. Purpose. And numbers."

---

That night, Xander couldn't sleep.

He stared at the glyph on his palm. At the broken memories Veyr had shown him.

He thought of the other him—the cold, echo-self who had called him weak.

And the voice that had warned:

> "Don't trust the mirror."

What mirror?

What reflection hadn't yet shown itself?

He walked to the edge of the train car, opened the rusted hatch, and looked out at the dead rails stretching into darkness.

"I'm going deeper," he whispered. "I have to."

Behind him, Lyra stirred in her bunk. "Then we're going with you."

He turned.

She was awake. Watching him.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Not really. But... I feel clearer than I've ever been."

Lyra walked over, standing beside him.

"Ghost Protocol," she said softly. "I've heard rumors. Of old Veil agents who broke themselves to hide knowledge too dangerous to live. This isn't just memory retrieval anymore. It's you—becoming who you once were."

Xander nodded. "And maybe something more."

They stood there a long while.

No more words.

Only the pulse of ancient rails humming beneath their feet.