Chapter Text
Ch. Seven — The Cat’s Out of the Bag!
Like a ghost slipping between worlds, [Name] trudges through the alleyways. Each step is punctuated by a gutter's drip and her boots' fall. Her body aches from the fight—joints stiff, muscles tight. She barely escaped the Protofield. The fight. The research base.
In her arms, Pumpkin trembles against her chest. His orange fur is darkened by dirt and dust. His breaths come in uneven puffs. He meows softly. It's a wounded sound that cuts deeper than any blade. She cradles him as gently as possible, trying to avoid the cuts and bruises that line his flank where the Wanderer flung him. Guilt gnaws at her. She didn't want anyone to get hurt—but look at her now. There's no use in denying it: Pumpkin's hurt because of her. Because she chose to fight. To interfere. To rewrite the story's script further.
Her thoughts are a tangle of confusion and regret. Serenophe and Tara—both stepping into a future she knows is already off-course. Xavier nowhere in sight. The Wanderer fight. Her choices toppling carefully arranged dominoes. She's changing more than details. She's reshaping destiny. And for what? To survive? To atone for her past life's failures?
She wishes it was raining. It would fit her mood better, but the sky is dry. Just a bright haze of light and stale air. The cramped alleyways smell of old cooking oil and refuse. It's a familiar scent, one that should comfort in its ordinariness. But right now, it's all too much. Too real. Too stifling.
Without Pumpkin's weak guidance, she wouldn't know where one nightmare ends and the next begins. And the occasional broken bottle or scurrying rodent cruelly reminds her that she's still here. Still alive. Because of Pumpkin.
After what seems like forever, she stumbles to a halt.
They finally make it to their destination.
Stellar Impact Gym.
She doesn't know why, but she expected it to be a ruin. Hidden off the main drag, deep into the Bloomshore District, it should be a dusty shell. Yet, as she approaches, she notices the sign's flickering neon light. The building doesn't exactly look welcoming, but it's not boarded up or silent. It feels preserved like someone still cares enough to keep it going.
"We're here," she whispers to Pumpkin as she readjusts her hold.
He gives a weak purr in response, or perhaps just a gentle exhale. His body quivers, and she feels the subtle vibration through her arms. It hurts to see him like this. But she knows that he's hurting more. [Name] can still picture him in the Protofield, claws out and tail lashing as he launches himself at the Wanderer to save her. It's a cruel irony that he's now broken down while she still stands.
The door creaks loudly as she pushes it open. The sound makes her wince. It's like it's announcing their presence to anything lurking inside. But what greets her isn't a derelict space. Instead, it is a neat, well-maintained interior. Although weathered, the gym still holds onto its purpose. Equipment is arranged meticulously along the walls. A boxing ring sits at the center, ropes taut and canvas clean. Overhead lights hum dully, and the scent of sweat and leather musks the air. It's almost like fighters were training here moments prior.
And then she sees them.
Cats.
Scores of them, of every color and pattern, draped over benches, perched atop punching bags, curled along the beams overhead. They turn their heads in silent unison. Feline eyes glow in the artificial light. Some gaze at her with mild indifference; others narrow their eyes with strange recognition of her presence. But above all else, Pumpkin's condition doesn't escape their attention. There's a palpable shift in their demeanor. A hush of shared understanding. They grow quieter. They understand he's in pain and acknowledge him with quiet reverence.
Her breath catches as her knees threaten to buckle. She's so, so tired. More than that, she's unraveling. The events at the research base have left her shaken, uncertain, and numb. She's been running and acting, but what has she really accomplished? Like sand slipping through her fingers, her thoughts drift away.
And now, she's wary but desperate. She just needs a moment to think, breathe, care for Pumpkin, and plan her next move.
Her eyes fall onto the small office tucked away in one corner. The door is slightly ajar. Warm light spills onto the polished floor. A rhythmic tapping echoes from within—a constant, scratching sound of pen against paper. It's almost soothing. Almost.
The fight settles into her bones as she stands there, trying to catch her breath. Her adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving behind an overwhelming sense of exhaustion.
"Wrong place to wander into."
[Name] startles. Instinctively, her hands tighten around Pumpkin's fragile form. She forces her closer to the office door and locks eyes with a man. He's sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers. There's a nameplate atop the desk—Kane—his name captured in tidy lettering. There's a journal in his hands as his eyes shift from [Name] to the trembling cat in her arms.
His attire is crisp, sleeves rolled neatly, pants pressed. He looks more like an accountant than a fighter. However, his stance suggests otherwise. Lean, yet muscular. Relaxed, yet commanding. There's a sense of order about him that mirrors the gym's immaculate arrangement.
Kane sets down his journal, stands, and pushes the office door open with one hand. Even in such a casual setting, his presence fills the room.
"Are you lost?" he asks. There's no bark or bluster, but his gaze is more unnerving than open aggression. He's assessing her like a trainer would size up a new student: posture, injuries, intent.
[Name] swallows hard, repositioning Pumpkin's weight in her arms. The cat groans softly. She clenches her jaw, recalling the sight of Pumpkin lying broken on the ground.
"I—" she manages, voice raw. "No, I mean, he's hurt. I need somewhere to—"
"Despite how it looks, this isn't a shelter." Kane interrupts. He steps forward, his boots clicking on the floor. His eyes flick down to Pumpkin, then back to her. He doesn't let up, but he's clearly taking in the cat's condition. "And you don't look like you're here for a lesson. So I'll ask in a different way: what are you doing here?"
There's no open hostility but no easy kindness, either. Her skin prickles. She feels exposed. It's like he's reading secrets in the lines of her exhausted face. Her mind flashes back to the research base once more. The fight. The desperation. She risked everything to keep Serenophe and Tara safe—strangers yet not. She's crossed too many lines and changed too many events. And now she stands here, battered, with a wounded ally in her arms, facing another unknown.
She stumbles forward, desperation overriding caution.
"Please. I won't stay long. Just a moment to help him."
Kane's face pulls into a frown. His lips press into a tight line. He glances at Pumpkin again, and his eyes narrow. "That cat doesn't look like it'll make it long enough for you to play doctor here. Whatever you're running from, don't bring it to my gym."
"I'm not—" she starts, but the words catch in her throat. Once more, she's caught wondering what to say so as not to sound completely deranged. She's stuck between her desire to explain herself and her unease about being scrutinized.
Before she can defend herself, Pumpkin lets out a soft meow. Kane's brow furrows as he finally takes in the entire condition of the cat. His gaze shifts between Pumpkin and [Name] for the third time. For a moment, the air is thick with tension. Then, Kane steps forward, recognition clear on his face.
"Wait a minute," Kane says with a subtle shift in his tone. "Is that Pumpkin?"
[Name] blinks, confused. "What?"
Just a touch, Kane's face softens, and his voice loses some of its edge. "That cat's always around here. He's one of the strays I've been letting wander in and out. He's got a habit of getting into trouble, but he doesn't let people carry him like that. Looks like you got him in bad shape."
[Name] swallows hard, her guilt deepening. Relief overcomes her as she realizes Kane isn't entirely dismissing her anymore—but it won't last. The situation is heavier than ever. She could tell him the truth. She could admit everything—the Wanderer, the Protofield, how she'd gotten here, but something stopped her.
"I found him like this," she lies. "I just—I don't know where else to go. He's hurt, and I don't know what to do."
Kane exhales slowly. For a moment, he seems to consider her. His head turns to the entrance, and it lingers there for a fraction too long—as if someone might appear. When he looks back, his face is guarded, like he’s searching for a way out of this interaction. His eyes drift to Pumpkin, then back to her face. She swears she sees the slightest flicker of hesitation, but it’s gone before she can grasp it. Instead, his features settle into something tighter, resigned.
"Sorry, ma'am, but I'm not a charity," he replies flatly, yet he doesn't dare to look her in the eyes. "I don't know what you thought you'd find here, but there's a vet clinic a block over."
Pumpkin's weak meows, catching [Name]'s attention.
"Give him something," the cat musters.
"What?" [Name] asks as she stares down at the tabby. When she looks into Pumpkin's eyes, the desperation is evident.
"I said there's a clinic a block over," Kane repeats, misunderstanding her. He jabs his thumb toward the right. "Take the cat there."
She shakes her head and ignores Pumpkin for now. [Name] closes more of the distance between them. "No, please," she says. "You have to help me."
She knows a vet clinic would likely be a better choice for Pumpkin. She knows he would receive better care if she took him there than anything she could do. But something inside her refuses to accept that. Pumpkin, even Spots, insisted on her coming here for a reason. It has to be for something more than just his wounds. And, truth be told, she has no money to afford a vet visit. Not that she could admit that to Kane.
She continues. "I don't know where else to go."
Kane takes a step back, observing her. His posture is tense but thoughtful. Still, he crosses his arms and raises his chin. "You're bleeding, you're about to collapse, and you're carrying around a half-dead cat." Although his words are devoid of judgment, they're heavy with practicality. "This is my gym, not a damn free clinic. So unless you got a damn good reason for crashing in here, I—"
Without thinking, [Name] fumbles through her pockets. Her free hand searches for anything—anything to convince him. Yet the fight, the Wanderer, the terror, it left her with nothing but a handful of useless odds and ends.
That's until her fingers brush against something cold and metallic.
She hesitates, too afraid to pull it out. But her instincts push her forward, frantic to find some way to make this man understand. Her heart pounds as she pulls the brooch from her pocket. It feels like a last, desperate card to play.
She holds it up, unsure what to even say.
"I have this." Her voice shakes as she speaks.
Kane’s reaction is immediate but impossibly subtle. He freezes. His stance doesn’t shift much, but the sharp edge of his scrutiny changes. Something about his response is all wrong. Recognition? Anticipation? Guilt? It’s like a wire has been tripped, an invisible line crossed.
He looks at the brooch like it’s a loaded weapon. His gaze lingers and tightens. He doesn’t say anything for a beat too long, and the silence coils around them like a noose.
"Follow me," he mutters. The words are crass and quiet, as though he’s just made a decision he’ll regret.
[Name] stares after him, stunned by the sudden shift in his demeanor. The distance present only moments prior is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. She opens her mouth to question him, but Pumpkin meows weakly, breaking the tension.
"Thank you," she murmurs instead.
"Don't thank me yet," Kane replies curtly, turning on his heel. His voice has a strange weariness as if he’s tired of playing a role he never asked for. He gestures for [Name] to follow him into the office. He points toward a couch against the far wall. The upholstery looks worn but still serviceable. "Put him down there. I'll grab some first aid supplies. Don't touch anything while I'm gone."
The edge of his words doesn’t sound like a warning; it's a plea.
She nods before entering his office, her body heavy with fatigue. Carefully, she sets Pumpkin down on the couch, and the tabby lets out a pitiful yowl as his body settles onto the cushion. She gently strokes his fur, trying to soothe him, but her own unease refuses to fade.
Kane disappears into a back room. The sound of cabinets opening and closing reverberates through the gym. And it's amplified in the silence of the office. [Name] is left alone with her thoughts as she sits beside Pumpkin. She unclenches her hand and glances down at the brooch. She turns it over between her fingers.
The knot in her gut twists tighter. Kane’s demeanor had shifted so abruptly when he saw it. But there's no way he knows what it entails. She doesn't remember him from the game, but his expressions had been too careful. Too loaded. She expected him to haggle, to demand some other form of payment, but instead, he treated it like a secret handshake.
The brooch feels heavier now—more than just its physical weight. Whatever it symbolizes, Kane's reaction has revealed one thing: he isn't just some gym owner scraping by in the Bloomshore District. There's another layer beneath his orderly front.
Pumpkin's voice pulls [Name] from her thoughts. "He's sharp," the cat murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. "Saw it. Knows something. Be careful."
[Name] blinks. Her heart tightens at the warning. She leans closer to him and whispers, "What do you mean?" But Pumpkin doesn't respond. His eyes close, and his breathing becomes shallower.
Panic rises in [Name]'s chest, but she hears Kane's footsteps returning before she can react. He appears in the doorway a moment later, a small first aid kit in hand. His face is impassive, but his gaze flickers—not at her, but at the brooch still cradled in her hand.
Then, as quickly as it comes, it disappears.
"You're lucky I keep this place stocked for injuries," he mutters, kneeling beside the couch. His tone is casual but forced, like he’s trying to drown out the unsaid. Kane opens the kit and pulls out the antiseptic and bandages. "I need space to work. There's a bench right outside my office. Wait there, and don't wander off."
[Name] pauses, then slowly nods. From Pumpkin's cryptic words to Kane's quick glance—there's an edge to everything now. Her instincts scream that there’s more happening than meets the eye. However, Kane's focus now remains entirely on Pumpkin, his hands steady as he works.
Reluctantly, she stands. Pumpkin needs care, and whatever else Kane might be hiding doesn’t matter right now. She exits the office, her head heavy and her heart beating too hard against her ribs. She walks toward the bench near the door, feeling every stray cat's eye as she steps out. The cats, who had been lounging in various corners of the gym, now stare at her knowingly. It's unsettling. Their eyes track her every move like they understand something she doesn't.
The cold metal of the bench presses against her as she slumps down. She crosses her arms and curls into herself, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. Her fingers find their way to each other's nails as she picks at them. Anxiety prickles along the edges of her mind as her leg bounces restlessly.
She glances around the gym again. Her mind tries to catch up with everything that happened so far. Every mistake. Every bad decision. It has built up to this very point, yet it doesn't look like it will end any time soon. She can't seem to find a foothold in whatever she does.
Her gaze drifts to the mirror on the far wall and freezes. She doesn't want to look, but she can't pull away. The sight of herself is jarring. There she is—a version of herself she barely recognizes. Her clothes are torn and bloodied, and her face is drawn with exhaustion. The effects of everything she's been through press down on her with brutal clarity. But something else catches her attention as her gaze moves over the reflection.
Her body feels off. She hadn't gotten to check herself after the fight, but now, she feels the call to do so.
She forces herself to stand and walks over to the mirror with weary eyes. Suddenly, she needs to know the extent of the damage. She needs to feel the wounds and the proof that she's really been through what she remembers. But as she lifts the hem of her hoodie, expecting to find the long cut across her ribs, she's met with nothing. No wound. No blood.
Nothing.
Her stomach twists in confusion. She blinks rapidly. Her eyes dart between the mirror and her skin. As if willing the wound to appear, she runs her fingers across her abdomen. But it's smooth. Unmarked. Like the fight, the injury never happened. Her breath catches in her throat, and she steps back from the mirror.
"What's going on?" she mutters, struggling to understand what she's seeing—or not seeing.
Then, a voice calls out from behind her. It's familiar. High-pitched and child-like.
"You made it."
Her pulse quickens, and she whips her head around. But she already knows who it is. The voice is unmistakable. A little mischievous, a little wise.
"Spots," she breathes, dropping the hem of her hoodie.
Without hesitation, [Name] drops to her knees. Her chest is tight, and her breathing is shallow. She pulls Spots into her arms and clutches him. His soft, round body sinks into her embrace. Their bittersweet reunion is a small comfort amidst the mental turmoil.
"I'm so sorry, Spots," she whispers as she hugs him tighter. "Pumpkin is… I never should have let him get hurt. He doesn't deserve this. It's all my fault."
Her words come out in a rush. It's an outpouring of guilt clawing at her since the fight. She presses her face into his fur. The heat of his body calms her nerves just a little. But despite his presence, the unease continues to stir within.
Spots let out a low exhale. The kind that seems like he's been waiting for this. He doesn't pull away, even as she clings to him. Instead, he shifts just enough to nestle further into her hold. Spots remain still, almost like he understands that she needs this.
Her voice cracks as she continues. "I should have thought of something else. I thought I could protect him. But I—I couldn't stop the Wanderer. I didn't know what to do. Pumpkin was so brave, throwing himself at it like that. And then I—" Her throat tightens, and her fingers bury themselves into his fur. It's like she's trying to purge the turmoil out of herself.
She takes a shaky breath, fighting against the rising tide of emotion. "When it had me pinned—and its blade was right there," A tremor runs through her as she closes her eyes. Her mind takes her back, remembering the terrible certainty of the blade against her throat. "I thought I was going to die. I really thought I was going to die. But then Pumpkin saved me. He gave everything to protect me."
Spots shift in her arms. His head tilts upward to meet [Name]'s eyes. There's a calmness to him. A wiseness beyond his stout size, like he's heard it all before. It makes her pause. He doesn't speak immediately, but his quiet presence is enough. She can sense his understanding—explicit but unspoken.
And then, when the silence stretches too long, he speaks.
"You didn't survive. Not really."
The words knock the breath from her lungs. She pulls away from him, and Spots doesn't resist; he watches her. His green eyes are wise, understanding more than she's ready to accept.
"I—what do you mean?" [Name] stammers.
The question is futile. It could never bridge the gap between her confusion and the answer she desperately seeks. Her mind spins, tumbling in frantic circles as she tries to latch onto anything tangible. The word around her tilts just a fraction, and she feels it—a subtle loss of control, like she's slipping from solid ground. Her hands, which just clutched Spots so tightly, are now shaking uncontrollably as she pulls them back.
Spots blink slowly like he's considering how to best explain something that can never truly be understood. "The fight," he says. "You didn't come out of it the way you think you did."
His words hang in the air, but they don't register. Not yet. Not fast enough. Her thoughts race. The truth is just out of reach like a mirage fading the closer she gets. A soft, pained meow drifts from the office, and [Name] flinches as if struck. Pumpkin's cries pierce through the gym. Each one is another blow to her already broken spirit. The sound, filled with so much distress, drowns her. She can't bear it, not after everything she's done.
She looks toward the office door and watches Kane close it quietly. They lock eyes; his face pulled down before the cries fade into muffled sobs behind the door. The small act of shielding her from the noise is almost too kind. But she doesn't deserve it. Not when she knows that Pumpkin is hurting because of her. Because of her decisions. Her mistakes. Her failures.
[Name] looks back at Spots. The truth settles deeper now; it rings in her ears. She didn't make it out of the fight. Not really. She doesn't know what that means—how could she? But the air is different now, like she's standing on the edge of something terrifying, and the ground beneath her crumbles.
"Follow me," Spots says, breaking the silence with such unexpected gentleness. His emerald eyes soften as he nudges her side with his head. "You don't need to hear this."
She hesitates. Her body is heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and guilt. She wonders if she should stay here, close to the door, hidden in the gym's quiet. But Spots doesn't give her that option. He turns and starts heading toward a wide corridor off to the side. He glances back, his eyes firm with quiet insistence. Even without words, it's clear that he's telling her to follow. To move forward.
Reluctantly, [Name] rises, following him away from the main space. The other cats watch her from their places in the gym. Their eyes are constricted, but she can't find the strength to care about them right now. Not when everything feels broken—when she feels broken.
They make their way down the corridor and toward a slightly ajar door. Spots pushes it open with his stout frame and starts descending the creaking wooden stairs. The muffled cries of Pumpkin slowly disappear with each step downward.
When they reach the bottom, the space opens up before her. The heat of the basement immediately strikes her. The scent of cat fur and earthy mush fills the air. A small kitchen nook occupies one corner. Its countertop is cluttered with dishes and stray utensils. Against the far wall rests a bed, simple but cozy, its thick quilt tossed haphazardly. Next to it, a desk is piled high with papers—old gym brochures, an open notebook, and a collection of scattered pens. A low dresser holds a television opposite the bed, and nearby, a small couch sits, surrounded by boxes, chairs, and the occasional stray towel.
The basement feels like a modest sanctuary that speaks of time, quiet lives, and forgotten stories.
There are fewer cats here than [Name] expected, but the few remain more relaxed. They curl up in corners or sprawl across the furniture. But just like the cats upstairs, their eyes follow [Name] as she enters the space. Some nod in silent acknowledgment—as if they've been waiting for her, anticipating her arrival.
Spots leads her to a corner of the room where a small cushion lies. He curls up on it, and his round face tilts upward to meet her gaze. Resolute. It's as if he's waiting for the inevitable question to come.
Still reeling from the cryptic words he spoke earlier, she stares down at him. Her eyes search his face for answers as she sinks to her knees before him. Her hands tremble as they rub up and down her thighs.
"What did you mean earlier?" She swallows hard, forcing each word out. "Are you saying that I didn't actually…"
Spots stretch out on his cushion, yet his eyes never leave hers. The rumble of his purring starts to fill the room. It contradicts the thick tension in the air; however, he's unbothered by the gravity of their conversation, like he's done this countless times before.
"It's exactly like what I said," Spots says, "You didn't come out of it the way you think you did."
His repetition gives off the sense of rehearsal, as though he's actually preparing her for something heavier. Something that will shatter her fragile grip on what's real even more.
"What are you talking about?" she demands, shaking so hard her voice wavers. "I don't understand. I was hurt. I bled. I should still be hurt. So, why—why am I okay?"
Spots' emerald eyes soften further like he knows exactly what she's going through. He doesn't wait. His voice is gentle, but there's a knowing undertone that she can't quite grasp.
"You have nine lives," he says slowly, letting each word settle like dust on still air. "Just like a cat. Just like us."
As though a thick fog has rolled in, everything is hazy. For a long moment, she can't move or even blink. Her thoughts race in all directions, but none lead to answers. The ground beneath her shifts, and the world tilts just a little more. Nine lives. She has nine lives. The idea is absurd, like something pulled from old folklore. But here, in this new world—this reality inside a mobile otome game, for fuck's sake—maybe it's not so unbelievable.
[Name] shifts, moving just enough to be able to pull her knees closer to her chest. She grips her hoodie tightly, trying to keep herself together.
"Y'know," Spots senses her disorientation and begins slower this time. "I'm on my sixth life."
Six. The number lands small yet significant in the hush of the basement. It's a simple revelation that cracks open her understanding of him—and of what she herself might be. [Name] squints at the seemingly ordinary tuxedo cat. He looks so plain: chubby, soft-furred, green-eyed, and completely unassuming. Yet beneath that harmless exterior is a complex tapestry of existence she can barely fathom.
"I've lived six times already." He speaks as if describing old memories found in dusty boxes. "Six whole lifetimes to learn, to grow, to make mistakes and try again. I've been here and there—alternate dimensions, video games, TV shows, you name it." His whiskers twitch with a hint of amusement. "Ever been a prince's trusted advisor in a medieval world? I have. Once, I even spent a life stuck as a pixelated sidekick in some shooter game. I don’t recommend it."
[Name] blinks, stunned as the words sink in. Spots sound so casual like he’s recounting an old vacation, but it cracks open something irrational within her.
“And trust me,” he adds with a slow blink, his humor fading as his green eyes soften. “You learn a lot when you’ve been a star in a TV show one lifetime and a forgotten stray the next.”
His matter-of-fact explanation doesn't feel real. Above them, the city hums with business as usual—cars, shoppers, sunlight. But here, in a cluttered basement that smells of dust and old cardboard, she's brushing against an entirely different cosmic order.
Spots cocks his head, meeting her stare with a knowing look. "We cats," he continues, "we're allowed nine lives. Each one a lesson, building on the last. That's how we are. We live, we learn, and we return. But you—" He pauses, letting his words settle. "You're different."
The word "different" strikes like a bell's toll, echoing in her mind long after it's spoken. A thousand unspoken questions now remain in its wake. She's not a cat. She's never counted her own lifespans like some tally on a chalkboard. And yet, something about his tone shifts a piece of her internal puzzle. It doesn't click into place, but it moves.
"Different?" Her voice is tight and strained.
Spots nod, patient and kind. "You've been granted nine lives too," he explains. "but yours aren't like ours. You're tied to this one new thread of existence. Once it's over, it's over. Right now, though, you're like us—just not in the same way."
Her mind becomes a whirlwind. Not a cat, but still granted these extra lives. Not immortal, but not genuinely mortal either. It's a paradox she can't parse. Suddenly, she finds herself on her hands and knees. Dizzy. As if all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. As the world continues above, reality warps below in this basement. Spots is telling her that cats have a cyclical existence; they die, they come back, and they carry on. And apparently, she's part of that cycle now, too, just not in the same way. It doesn't make sense, but then, it does.
The memories hit her like a shockwave, everything clicking into place faster than her mind can process.
A barrage of images bursts into her mind: the motorcycle crash. The intense impact. How her body struck the concrete wall. She remembers the paralyzing sensation that splintered through her back and shoulders. By all logic, she should still be broken and battered, scarred and aching. She should still feel the burns from where her body had scraped along the wall. The remnants of the crash should still be with her. But there's nothing.
Her head hurts, but the memories refuse to stop. They keep pushing forward.
The Wanderer fight.
The terror of it.
The desperate moments when she had barely managed to escape with her life. The creature's blade had been so close. She can still feel the cool, sharp edge as it grazed her skin, whispering death against her skin. That moment had felt like the end, yet she also survived that. Heat rises in her chest. Her heart hammers faster and faster, and the meaning of Spots' words crystallizes.
"I should've died," she whispers, but it's more of a confession to herself than a statement to Spots. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. She wasn't supposed to survive at all. Yet here she is, talking to a cat who claims she has lives to spend like coins in an otherworldly economy.
The world around her twists, the basement spinning into a surreal haze. She wants to dismiss it all as madness—a trick, a dream—but she can't ignore the logic. The evidence is too strong: she survived the impossible—more than once.
Spots watches her closely, his black-and-white tail curling and uncurling. He looks at her regretfully like he's passing down a heavy sentence.
"And yet," he says solemnly. "You didn't. Not really."
Her breath shudders. She can feel it now—the truth sinking into her bones. She tries to settle herself, but the pressure in her chest only intensifies as she comes to terms with the new rules of her existence.
"How many?" Her voice cracks like old paint, and her eyes are squeezed shut. "How many lives do I have left?"
Spots pauses, and she can sense his reluctance to add more to her burden. When he speaks again, it's with deliberate gentleness. "Your reincarnation counts as one life lost," he says. "Your nine lives have been ticking down since you arrived."
She releases a sound—half-laugh, half-disbelieving gasp. Her mind scrambles over the math, forcing logic into the chaos. Two near-deaths already: the crash, the Wanderer's blade. And knowing that her reincarnation also counts. That leaves six lives.
Six.
There's that number again.
But it's different from Spots. For him, six means he has already lived through six entire lifetimes and still has three new ones awaiting him. For her, six means something else altogether. Six attempts remain—not six new lives, but six more escapes from death before it all ends permanently.
The difference is like a chasm between them. Spots will cycle through life and death, reborn again and again until he's exhausted all nine chapters of his story. But she gets no new chapters, no fresh starts. Just a limited number of emergency exits. Once those are done, the story ends. Forever this time.
She staggers upright, pressing her hands to her forehead like it can physically hold her skull together. Six chances. Just six. The world spins. She looks around at the mundane clutter of the basement—boxes, shelves, a single overhead bulb—it's all distant, unreal. Nothing about this moment makes sense, yet it's undeniably true.
She was never supposed to make it this far. She wasn't supposed to survive. Not the crash, not the fight, not anything. Not a single fucking thing. But here she is—still struggling to understand what's happening to her.
"I want you to know that we'll always be here for you, and we asked you to come here because…" Spots is still speaking, but [Name] can't hear him anymore. She sees his mouth move, but his words blend into a jumble of unintelligible noise. It's like static to her ears, overlapping with the frantic throb of her pulse. Her body and mind are in open revolt, refusing this new impossible truth. She can't process it. Can't make sense of it.
A sharp voice snaps the tension like a whip: "I thought I told you not to wander off."
She jerks around, her heart jolting as if struck by lightning. Kane is standing at the bottom of the stairs, framed by the glare of a naked overhead bulb. He looks taller, more severe, and each angled shadow on his face seems cut from stone. Their eyes meet and hold. He regards her with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest. He looks her up and down, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the panic in her eyes, and the trembling in her limbs.
[Name] tries to collect herself, but it's hopeless. Her thoughts are scrambled, and she can barely keep her balance. Kane watches. Impassive. Or maybe he's angry, or worried, or something else entirely. His emotions are folded beneath layers of indifference she can't read.
"Is Pumpkin okay?" she blurts. The question scrapes out of her throat. It's a desperate attempt to latch onto something familiar in a world gone wrong.
Kane's gaze shifts, and for a sliver of a second, the hard lines of his face mellow. He uncrosses his arms and scrubs a hand over his face like he's wiping away a stain. "He's stable," he sighs. Then, quieter, "You wanna see him?"
It's a question loaded with quiet promise, and she seizes on it instantly. Numb, she only manages to nod. She needs to see Pumpkin. Needs proof that some constants still remain intact. That need propels her up the stairs behind Kane, through the corridor and main space. Her vision tunnels, focused solely on that one desire.
She’s so focused that she doesn't even notice Kane pushing Spots back into the basement and shutting the door behind them. Doesn't realize the other cats who once prowled the gym have vanished. Doesn’t even note how the overhead lights are dimmer now, the shadows leaning in. She presses on, mind fixed on Pumpkin and nothing else.
At last, they reach the office. Stale air, old leather, and dust motes swirl in weak lamplight. [Name] heads straight for the couch, expecting a warm bundle of orange fur. But it's empty. The cushions yield under her fingertips. Hollow. Cold. Vacant. Her stomach twists, nausea rising.
"Where's Pumpkin?" The words splinter from her throat, sounding wrong like someone else spoke them. She whips around, expecting to find Kane behind her. Instead, he stands near the door with his hand tight on the knob. His eyes are soft now, but not with kindness; a subdued apology lurks there, and it's far more terrifying.
"Sorry," he murmurs.
A hollow thud of terror resonates through her body, and her eyes widen at the sudden realization. She rushes toward the door, but Kane is faster. As swiftly as a trap snapping shut, he slips out and slams the door. The lock engages with a loud click that reverberates in the enclosed space.
She's trapped.
Panic flares, burning through her chest. She claws at the doorknob, pounding her fist against the solid wood. Every strike is more desperate than the last. "Open the door!" she shouts. Each word is edged with desperation, yet nothing but her ragged breath answers back.
Footsteps fade outside, and her plea dissolves into silence. The stillness thickens, and the office walls shrink with each passing second. She tries to remember Pumpkin's soft purr, Spots' gentle eyes, anything to steady herself—but the memories slip away, leaving only dread.
Pumpkin had warned her about Kane's elusive motives, yet she allowed herself to be led here, blinded by worry. She backs into the center of the room, heart hammering. The familiar smell of dust and old leather takes on a suffocating quality. The shadows in the corners swell, inky shapes lengthening, stretching, twisting into malevolent silhouettes. She's never felt so helpless, so cornered.
The air grows cold—not the kind that creeps in through drafty windows— it's unnatural, sharp, biting. A shiver races down her spine, every nerve suddenly alert. She freezes, her breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs as the temperature drops further.
It’s too quiet now; the world is holding its breath. Her senses are sharpened, fear coiling hot through her veins.
Then, she hears it.
Footsteps.
They echo from somewhere behind her. Each thud is slow and intentional. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound reverberates in her chest, vibrating her ribs like a hammer striking steel. Her pulse quickens. The sensation of being watched wraps around her like a chokehold. She can feel eyes on her—unrelenting, hungry, and close.
Slowly, she turns. What was just another dark patch in a corner now draws breath. The darkness melts away, retreating from a more potent force, revealing a tall, imposing figure stepping into the meager light. The presence moves at its own pace. Each footfall is heavy, and every move is planned.
She staggers backward as goosebumps run across her skin. The figure solidifies, and recognition stabs her like a knife. She's seen him countless times in the game's art—some distant, fictional menace. But here, inches away, he's terrifyingly real. He dominates the room by simply existing in it.
His eyes bore into hers, glinting with predatory interest that runs her blood cold. There's no mercy, no pity, only a detached fascination. His presence pours over her like a noxious tide, and she's drowning in it.
It's him.
Sylus.
Her lungs seize. She can’t move, can’t think, pinned like prey beneath his gaze.
"Well, well," Sylus drawls, dripping with mocking silk. "If it isn't [Name], the infamous bike thief. Did you have a fun time?"
He doesn't pounce right away. He takes his time, savoring her fear like it's fine wine. He prolongs the moment until her knees threaten to buckle, then he saunters across the room, indifferent, and leans one hip against the desk. The weak light outlines him in jagged silhouettes and accentuates every angle of his frame. Arms folded, he studies her, head tilted as if evaluating a rare specimen.
"I believe you have something of mine," he muses. It's a subtle threat, and he arches an eyebrow, daring her to deny it.
At first, [Name] is confused, and her mind grasps at straws. Then she remembers—the brooch. Kane must have told him. That would make the most sense. When she showed it to Kane, desperate for some kind of understanding, she gave herself away. A sickening realization blossoms in her stomach: they know each other.
"Come here," Sylus commands. It's not a request, not a suggestion. It's a demand.
[Name] reacts on pure instinct and steps backward. Her heart leaps at the foolish hope that the door might open if she tried again. That some miracle would free her from this waking nightmare. But before her heel can meet the floor, something cold and electric seizes her waist.
She looks down and sees it: a swirling mist, black shot with crimson streaks, circles her body like a living, sentient ribbon of smoke. It constricts, an impossible sensation of burning ice that seizes her, forcing a ragged gasp from her throat.
"No, wait, I can expla—"
She never finishes. The mist yanks her forward, dragging her toward Sylus with merciless strength. She can't resist; her muscles refuse to obey, and panic mounts. Her feet scrape uselessly against the floor.
Sylus uncrosses his arms and closes the gap in one smooth stride. He catches her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face with mock gentleness. She flinches, but he doesn't relent. His touch is deceptively light, but it's easy to tell that he'd be just as content crushing her bones one by one.
"You look just like her," he murmurs like he's relieving a distant memory. There's a softness there, but it's filled with ghosts and regret. She's close enough now to smell him—his cologne sharp and spicy, undercut by metallic notes of gunpowder. He leans in, and his breath warms her cheek, but the gesture is uncomfortable, a final 'kindness' offered before the blade falls.
His right eye ignites with crimson fire, ember torn from the pits of Hell. It intensifies with each gallop of her heart. The moment their eyes meet, the world convulses. The dingy office fades into pulsing shadows. She tries to hang onto something—her name, her past—but it all slips away. Everything bleeds together until reason and reality crumble into chaos.
The voices flare, low at first, then rising in a shrill chorus. It's [Name]'s voice, fractured and multiplied, thrown back at her in jagged echoes. They whisper the unspoken, the unspeakable—her secret cravings, her private shames, her forbidden yearnings. The kind of desires so knotted and confused that she can't even fully name them. They mock her, sneer at her, peel away every layer of denial until she's laid bare before him.
She feels him sift through her psyche, plucking at these raw nerves. He's weaving truths from the knots of her soul, piecing together patterns to dangle before her. He understands more than he should, but he doesn't look happy.
[Name] barely makes out the downturn of his lips in the shifting red haze. He's frowning.
Just when she can’t bear it any longer, Sylus lets go. The savage grip of the mist dissipates in an instant. She collapses forward, lungs stuttering as she gulps down stale air. A biting cold lingers in her chest, spreading like frost over her ribs. Her fingers shake, numb. A prickling burn remains where the mist touched her.
Her eyes burn, and as she blinks, wet streaks run down her cheeks and over her upper lip. She's crying—heavy, messy sobs that leave trails of tears and snot. Her nose is running; mucus mixes with salt.
[Name]'s mind is raw, scoured clean of any willpower. Her voice is cracked, pitiful, as though forced through broken glass. "Please," she manages, half-sobbing, half-gasping. "Just let me go."
Her eyelids droop, and her jaw slacks. She's utterly drained. Any trace of defiance has been carved from her. The stench of sweat and fear fills her nostrils. She can barely make Sylus out in the haze of her tears, but it doesn't matter—she knows he's still there, watching her crumble.
He hums a soft, cruel sound. “How very human,” he drawls. “For someone so desperate to survive, you don’t even know what you want.”
Sylus crouches beside her, prying her mind open again without a single touch. “No glory. No revenge. No freedom,” he enumerates, as if sorting through dusty relics. Then, he clicks his tongue. “I thought I’d find something more, but there’s just emptiness.”
He stands, and she hears the rasp of a lock turning; the office door groans open. Another exhausting wave of dread settles, but she's too numb to cry out, too spent to flinch as Sylus' Evol drags her body across the floor. The rough surface scrapes her hands as she's hauled back into the main area of the gym. Her limbs are dead weight, offering no resistance. It's all just happening to her, another cruelty in a world that's grinding her down to nothing.
Somewhere in the distance, she hears Spots. He's yowling, claws scraping furiously at some barrier—maybe the basement door. His cries ring through the space, calling her name in ragged, desperate pleas. But all she can do is listen, tears smearing her vision as she's forced upright.
She blinks slowly, eyes half-lidded, as her head lolls like a broken puppet. Two figures stand before her. They're both dressed in black with crow masks obscuring their faces. Luke and Kieran. She knows them, their roles and attitudes, but none of it matters. One converses with Sylus. The other rummages in a duffle bag. She can't muster the will to wonder what they're planning. She just wants it to be over.
Kane won’t look at her; she’s something shameful he can’t face. Under different circumstances, maybe that would matter. Perhaps she could've pleaded, reasoned with him. But now she's too numb—too hollowed out by fear and fatigue—to do anything but exist in this terrible moment.
The twin who was digging through the duffle bag finds what he's looking for—a black burlap hood. He approaches her, saying something cheerfully. Maybe it’s a quip, some mocking phrase he'd normally toss out in the game's scripted world, but she can't bring herself to care. Words are meaningless now. All she wants is comfort, escape, a miracle. She wants kindness and familiarity. She wants Pumpkin, warm and safe in her arms.
He turns her around, ties her wrists together, and then spins her again to face him. She's trembling, her head bowed, tears still leaking silently down her cheeks. The last thought that drags through her mind before the hood engulfs her vision is Pumpkin's soft fur; his body curled up safely beside her.
Then, as the black fabric closes the light, that small comfort disappears.