The^[a] Tavern of Forgotten Fates

By: Michael J. Määttänen

Chapter 1: Awakening 

Michael wakes up, certain he just had a strange^[b] dream—one where his life was ending.

But now, he finds himself in a vast, dark void—a field stretching into nothingness. Panic creeps in as he frantically scans his surroundings, searching for any clue about where he is. The only thing visible in the endless darkness is an ornate footbridge, arching gracefully over a river that glows an iridescent blue.

As he pushes himself up to stand, something feels… off. The aches and pains he’s lived with for so long are simply gone. Even stranger, his vision is perfect—sharper than it’s ever been.

Then, he notices the swan.

A glowing white swan sits beside him, watching him in silence. Had it been there the whole time? Had it just arrived? Was it going to attack him? He vaguely remembers hearing about a duck—or was it a goose?—that once went after a kid for getting too close. Either way, it was a large, angry white bird.

“I have to be dreaming. This isn’t real,” Michael mutters to himself.

The swan stands, ruffling its feathers, then nudges him gently toward the bridge.

Michael stares at it, confused. The swan stares back, honks softly, and gestures toward the bridge with its beak.

“I guess you want me to go that way,” Michael sighs. “Alright, but please don’t chase or bite me. I haven’t touched you, I swear. I’m not like Link—you know, people who attack chickens in those games.” He pauses. “Though… I guess I did once. But everybody does, just to see if the chickens really fight back."

Michael starts walking toward the bridge, expecting to reach it quickly—but something feels off. No matter how far he walks, the distance doesn’t seem to close. The bridge, which he thought was small at first, isn’t getting any bigger or closer. Is it farther than it looks? Or is the space itself playing tricks on him?

He frowns, wondering just how long this walk is going to take. And why is he practically alone, except for the swan? Should he be worried? Are there robbers? Wild animals? The swan could just fly away if something happened, but Michael… not so much. Unless—

A thought strikes him. If this is a dream, maybe he can fly.

He stops in his tracks, bends his knees, and jumps as hard as he can.

…And lands with a solid thump against the ground.

“Strange,” he mutters. “In dreams, you never really hear your footsteps or landings when you jump. This is a very lucid dream, I suppose. But I still can’t fly. Lame.”

The swan honks from a few feet ahead, watching him with what seems like mild impatience—like a guide dog waiting for its person to quit messing around. If a bird could say we don’t have all day, let’s go politely, this swan just did.

Michael sighs and jogs to catch up, falling in step beside it. He still has no idea where he is, but if this walk is going to take a while, he might as well think it through.

Michael huffs in frustration. No matter how long he walks, the bridge never seems to get any closer. It looms in the distance, unchanging, like a mirage taunting him.

“Alright, fine,” he mutters. “Let’s see if this dream lets me cheat.”

Without warning, he takes off running, pushing himself forward as fast as he can. His footsteps hit the unseen ground with solid weight—too solid for a dream. The bridge should be closing in now, right? Shouldn’t it be getting bigger?

A frantic honking erupts behind him.

Michael glances back mid-stride and nearly trips at the sight of the swan. It’s running after him at full speed, its wings flapping wildly, feet slapping the ground with an almost comedic urgency.

“Honk! Honk! Honk!”

“Are you—are you seriously trying to keep up?” Michael gasps, laughing despite himself.

The swan honks even louder, its pace frantic as if shouting, Wait up! No fair!

Michael finally skids to a stop, breathless, half expecting the swan to crash into him. Instead, it stumbles to a halt just inches away, ruffling its feathers in clear irritation.

“You could’ve just flown, you know,” Michael points out.

The swan glares at him. Honks once. Then nudges him—hard—toward the bridge.

“Okay, okay! No more running.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”

The swan lets out one last honk, as if marking its victory, then resumes its steady march forward. Michael sighs, falling back into step.

And then—he stops.

The bridge is right there.

Not in the distance, not impossibly large. Just a simple, ornate footbridge, exactly as it had first appeared.

Michael turns back to the swan. “Oh, so now we’re here?”

The swan simply honks and waddles past him, stepping onto the bridge without hesitation.

Michael stares after it, then exhales sharply. “Right. Of course.”

Shaking his head, he follows.

So how long will I be on this bridge?

Walking across the field felt like it took hours—except maybe it was only seconds? Or minutes? Michael frowns. How long have I even been awake here?

There’s no sky to give him an answer. No stars, no moon, nothing but an endless dark void stretching in every direction. The only source of light is the river beneath him, casting an eerie, iridescent blue glow.

At least it’s something. The way it shimmers, shifting in the darkness, is almost comforting—until Michael really looks at it.

He slows his steps.

The river isn’t just glowing. It’s moving in a way water shouldn’t. Not with waves or ripples, but something deeper, something restless.

A chill creeps up his spine.

That’s not water.

He doesn’t know how he knows. He just does.

Michael risks a glance at the swan, half-expecting it to react—to acknowledge what he’s seeing. But the swan just keeps waddling forward, unbothered.

Michael swallows hard and keeps walking.

Michael keeps walking, his eyes flicking to the swan, then back to the shifting glow of the river. The void around them is endless, just the bridge beneath their feet, the eerie light below, and the path ahead.

Until it isn’t.

He stops short.

There, just a few steps away, is a small wooden food stand, its warm yellow lanterns flickering against the darkness. The smell of rice, seaweed, and something savory fills the air, a comforting contrast to the emptiness around them.

Behind the stand, a woman hums softly as she arranges neatly rolled kimbap onto a tray. She looks… familiar. Not in a way he can place, but in a way that tugs at something deep in his chest.

Michael hesitates, reaching into his pocket without thinking. Does he even have money here? Before he can check, the woman waves him off with a gentle smile.

“No need to pay. You need your strength. It’s still a long journey to where you’re going.”

She hands him a roll of kimbap, the seaweed still warm against his fingers, then turns to the swan and places a small fish cake in front of it. The swan honks in delight, pecking at the snack with enthusiasm.

Michael blinks, opening his mouth to say thank you—

But she’s gone.

The stand, the lanterns, the scent of fresh food—all vanished like they were never there.

Only the kimbap in his hands and the swan happily chewing remain.

Michael exhales, shaking his head. Right. Reality’s going to be weird here, huh?

The swan finishes its snack, gives a satisfied honk, and waddles forward without hesitation.

Michael follows.

As the two continue their journey, they walk for what feels like an eternity, with the bridge stretching on endlessly in the dark void. Eventually, they reach the far end, and Michael notices a flicker of light in the distance, glowing softly like windows of a building far off. He wonders if this is the destination the swan has been leading him to.

He mutters to the swan, “I wish you could talk and tell me where we’re going.”

The swan just honks and continues walking forward, undeterred.

Michael, with a small grin, glances down at the swan. “Can I call you Honky?”

The swan immediately honks back, its feathers fluffed up as it turns away from him. It stomps its webbed feet in indignation, as if to say, How dare you insult my language.

Michael laughs softly to himself, “Alright, alright. I get it. No ‘Honky’… I’ll keep thinking of something else.”

As they walked toward the distant glow of the building, Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d been walking for hours, though time in this place felt warped. The path stretched out endlessly before him, as if mocking his sense of time. The swan continued walking beside him, as silent and determined as ever, its steps steady in contrast to Michael’s growing uncertainty.

Without warning, the ground beneath his feet shifted. He stumbled, and before he could regain his balance, he was tumbling down the slope, his body cartwheeling awkwardly. His arms flailed, struggling to break his fall, but the incline seemed to stretch on forever, the earth moving beneath him like a slick slide. He hit the ground with a soft thud and slid a few more feet before finally coming to a stop.

From above, he heard the unmistakable sound of the swan honking—a sharp, almost mocking sound. Was the bird laughing? Michael grimaced, rubbing his head and pushing himself up. But before he could regain his bearings, he saw the swan swoop down, gliding effortlessly through the air, landing next to him with a grace that only added to the feeling that he had been outdone by a bird.

Disoriented, Michael finally lifted his eyes and noticed where he had landed. The glowing river was now just feet away. But the more he looked at it, the more it seemed… wrong. The light was soft and ethereal, almost too perfect in its beauty. It flickered like some shimmering blue haze, giving the illusion of water. But the moment Michael focused on it, something clicked. It wasn’t water.

The “river” was alive. The soft glow emanated from what he now saw were souls—stretched out, twisting in and out of the river, moving up and down in a disturbing rhythm. The blue light was the life force of the dead, winding its way through this strange realm, caught in endless motion. They weren’t just floating; they were tethered, undulating as if they had no choice but to move with the current of this liminal place.

Michael’s heart skipped a beat. He stood frozen for a moment, a chill crawling over his skin. Is this real? he thought. Am I dead?

He glanced at the swan, his mind spinning with the enormity of the realization. The bird was now standing next to him, unmoving, watching him with an almost unreadable expression. The question suddenly bubbled up, urgent and desperate, “Are you… good? Or evil?”

The swan didn’t respond. It merely honked once, almost dismissively, before turning and continuing its walk down the path. Michael swallowed hard and, feeling a strange mix of dread and acceptance, followed, his steps slow but steady.

As he walked, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the swan knew something he didn’t, something that he was afraid to understand. The weight of the unknown pressed down on him harder with each step.

Michael continues walking down the winding path, following the swan. The ground beneath him feels solid, and with each step, the faint glow from the flowers at his feet grows brighter. Little daisies, their soft petals glowing in various colors, scatter across the ground, lighting the way. He can’t help but be drawn to the soft hues of violet, blue, and pink, almost like they’re pulsing in rhythm with his steps.

“Well, this is kind of nice,” he mutters, half to himself. The light from the flowers is peaceful, calming, in stark contrast to the eerie void surrounding him. Maybe this place isn’t all bad.

As he walks, the swan moves ahead, its steps slow and measured. Michael’s thoughts wander, trying to piece together what’s going on. The reality of being in a place like this — a place beyond life, maybe even death — still hasn’t fully sunk in.

He lets out a quiet sigh and continues along, trying to focus on the path ahead, pushing aside the unease creeping in. But his thoughts keep turning back to the bridge.

Eventually, though, he forces himself to look forward, focusing on the winding path and the strange, glowing flowers underfoot. It’s easier that way, not thinking about what’s behind him or what he can’t explain.

But after a while, curiosity starts to tug at him again. He can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s different, and instinctively, he glances over his shoulder.

The bridge. It’s far away now — farther than he remembers it being. A thick mist has rolled in from behind, blanketing the air in an oppressive fog. The faint light from the daisies feels dimmer now, and the mist seems to be swallowing everything in its path. Michael’s breath catches as he realizes just how far the bridge has slipped from view.

He frowns and stops, staring back at the fog. “What the hell…?” he mutters, taking a few steps backward.

The swan, still ahead of him, doesn’t react. It just keeps moving forward, as if the fog and distance don’t matter to it.

The fog feels wrong, though. There’s something about it that unsettles him. It doesn’t feel natural — it’s too thick, too cold, too…alive. Something is off about it, and he’s drawn to it, despite his hesitation.

He takes a deep breath, glancing between the path ahead and the ever-distant bridge. The swan has nearly disappeared into the winding trail, but the fog is keeping him tethered to the moment. Something about it feels urgent, like he has to know what’s going on.

With a decision made, Michael steps toward the fog, his hand outstretched. He reaches for it slowly, hesitating just a bit before his fingers graze the air.

The moment his hand touches the fog, he feels it — an immediate, sharp chill, almost like ice. The sensation sends a jolt through his body, and he pulls back, his heart racing. The cold is unnatural, biting, as if it’s from a place that doesn’t belong here.

“Jesus,” Michael mutters, rubbing his hand where it met the mist. “That’s… that’s not normal.”

He stares at his hand for a moment, still feeling the aftershock of the cold. He exhales slowly, trying to shake off the unease. “Well, that sucks. Definitely not a dream.” He looks down the path, the glowing flowers still lighting his way, and then glances back once more at the fog.

“Alright,” he says with a sigh, shaking his head. “Guess I gotta move forward.”

With a small, dry laugh, he mutters under his breath, “Silent Hill vibes, huh? Great. I just hope I don’t get mauled by some mutated thing here.”

Michael jogs to catch up with the swan, frustration and curiosity bubbling inside him. “Wait up, would you?” he calls out.

He glances at the bird, his mind racing with the ridiculousness of the situation. “Alright, so if ‘Honky’ is off the table,” Michael mutters to himself, “what should I call you? Princess? My liege? My lord? The Darkness?”

He watches the swan as he throws out the names, his tone teasing, unsure which one will get the bird’s attention. The swan pauses with each new title, giving a sharp honk at each suggestion, as though it’s judging them. When he mentions “The Darkness,” however, the swan’s reaction changes. It lets out a strange, almost giggling honk, the sound echoing with delight.

Michael blinks, startled by the sound. “Wait, did you just—?”

The swan gives a regal nod, honking in agreement.

Michael stares, blinking in disbelief. “I’m not sure if I should be terrified or impressed. Alright, then. The Darkness it is.”

With a shrug and a wry smile, he follows the swan—The Darkness—as it continues its steady pace down the winding path, the light from the glowing flowers beneath their feet flickering softly in the gloom.

As Michael follows The Darkness down the path, he becomes so caught up in the oddity of his surroundings that he loses track of how far they’ve walked. Time seems to bend in this strange place—minutes could have passed, or maybe hours. It’s hard to tell.

But then, as the mist thickens and the light from the glowing flowers grows fainter, he notices it.

The tavern.

It’s standing there, much closer than he remembered, nestled against the dark backdrop like a beacon in the night. The kind of place you’d see in old British films—a charming, quaint pub straight out of a picturesque storybook. Its wooden beams and warm amber light spilling from the windows create an inviting contrast to the eerie darkness around them.

He can faintly hear laughter and the faint strains of music drifting from within, a sound so jarring and out of place that it almost doesn’t seem real. The air carries a sense of merriment, like a group of people celebrating something—though the warmth of it only deepens the chill creeping through Michael’s bones.

As he stands there, staring at the tavern, something shifts. His feet, almost on their own accord, carry him forward, but when he looks down, he realizes that the path has changed again. Where there was once a straight road, it now leads up a long, winding hill—one that he could swear wasn’t there a moment ago.

He blinks, confused. He doesn’t remember walking uphill, nor does he remember the path twisting so sharply. It’s like he’s been walking in a trance, unaware of how far he’s come.

“Well, that’s new,” Michael mutters, casting a glance back toward The Darkness. “Guess we’re really going up there, huh?”

The swan honks in response, unfazed.

As Michael and The Darkness trudge up the winding hill, his shoes squeak with each step, clearly not made for long treks like this. “These shoes are definitely not made for walking,” he mutters to himself, though he doubts the swan cares about his footwear complaints.

The Darkness honks loudly, almost in frustration, clearly not impressed by Michael’s pop culture references. Michael glances down at the swan, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with you and pop culture references?” he asks, but the swan doesn’t answer—just honks in a way that almost sounds like a dismissive groan.

The path grows steeper, and soon, the glowing flowers fade completely, their soft glow snuffed out by the increasing fog. The hill they climb now feels strangely isolated from everything below. The fog lingers down there, swarming below the hill like a thick, oppressive blanket.

When Michael looks back, he expects to see the bridge far in the distance, but his eyes widen as he sees that it’s now much closer, almost as if he’d somehow taken only a few steps back down the path. The fog that had surrounded it earlier is gone, and for a moment, the bridge looks like a simple feature of the landscape. Yet the weird sense that time or space is playing tricks on him persists.

“Well, The Darkness, I guess we go in,” Michael says, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, something feels off. He blinks and stops.

The swan—the glowing white creature that had been at his side this whole time—isn’t there anymore.

Confused, Michael turns back toward the bridge, realizing that the Darkness is no longer beside him. Instead, the swan is peacefully nestled by the edge of the bridge, as though it had never moved. The bird lies there in the mist, appearing to have been resting the entire time, despite the miles they just covered.

Michael squints. He could’ve sworn it was with him just moments ago. Had it always been back there by the bridge?

The fog swirls around the swan’s still form, and Michael shakes his head in confusion. Maybe the distance is just harder to gauge here… or maybe it’s something else. Either way, he decides it’s time to make his way toward the tavern.

“Alright then,” Michael mutters to himself, shrugging. “I guess I’ll go in alone.”

And with that, he steps toward the tavern, unsure of exactly what’s waiting for him inside, but feeling more certain that the swan—The Darkness—has its own plans.

Michael reached the threshold of the tavern, hesitating for only a moment before pushing open the heavy wooden door. Warmth spilled out to meet him, rich with the scent of spiced wine, roasted meat, and something sweet—honey, maybe. Laughter and the hum of conversation filled the air, a stark contrast to the quiet of the path outside. The swan remained behind him, its presence felt more than seen.

As he stepped inside, the door swung shut behind him with a decisive thud.

“오래 걸렸어.”

The words—sharp, impatient—rang out before Michael could take another step. He turned toward the voice and found a man standing near the entrance, arms crossed, expression pinched with frustration.

“Took you long enough to get here,” the man repeated in English, his tone no less exasperated.

He was dressed in a sharp black suit, silver embroidery glinting along the cuffs. His dark hair was tied back neatly, and his pale complexion contrasted with the shadowy hollows under his eyes. There was something unsettlingly precise about him, like a blade honed to perfection.

“Uh… sorry?” Michael offered, unsure of what he was apologizing for.

Jeoseung Saja sighed through his nose and shook his head. “You mortals. Always so slow.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

Before Michael could ask where here was, another voice cut in.

“Welcome.”

The word was spoken softly, but it carried through the room like the ringing of a bell. Michael turned toward the bar, his breath catching slightly at the figure standing behind it.

The Tavern Keeper.

Androgynous, their presence seemed to shift between masculine and feminine with each passing second. Their hair was short and dark, but it shimmered faintly as if reflecting light that wasn’t there. Their eyes—glowing violet, like twin nebulae swirling in a vast, endless sky—held something ancient, something that made Michael feel very small. Their skin was a shifting blend of dusky gray and ember-like red, subtly flickering like the glow of distant fire, revealing the complexity of their dual nature. Their arms were bare beneath a crisp white shirt and tailored vest, revealing golden markings that flickered and changed, like words being rewritten mid-sentence.

Michael barely had time to process them before the rest of the tavern demanded his attention.

The room was alive.

The walls weren’t just decorated with paintings—they were shifting windows into other realms. Mountains under storm-gray skies melted into golden deserts with twin suns, then into cities of towering spires gleaming under the light of a crescent moon. Another frame showed a battlefield littered with broken weapons, only to fade into a quiet forest where snow drifted in slow, deliberate spirals.

At the largest table in the center of the tavern, a group of figures were deep in discussion. A parchment lay before them, covered in symbols and notes. Every so often, one of them would glance up at Michael, then return to their debate.

Gods.

Michael didn’t need to know all their names to know them. Their presence was undeniable.

Jeoseung Saja had already returned to his seat at the table, rubbing his temple as if Michael’s mere existence was giving him a headache. Beside him sat Ukko, the Finnish sky god, broad-shouldered and storm-eyed, his thick beard shot with lightning. Across from him, Päivätär, the solar goddess, idly traced glowing patterns on the parchment with a fingertip. A Dokkaebi, impish and grinning, leaned forward with their chin resting on their hands, eyes gleaming with mischief.

And yet, for all the power in the room, no one else seemed to care that Michael was standing there.

The tavern hummed with voices—gods, spirits, forgotten myths, and lingering legends, their conversations overlapping in a chorus of languages Michael couldn’t place. Dishes and goblets floated from one table to another, carried by unseen hands. A bottle of wine poured itself into a glass before drifting away. Even the fire in the grand stone hearth flickered in unnatural hues—blue one moment, green the next, then settling into a rich amber glow.

It should have been overwhelming. It should have been terrifying.

But it wasn’t.

The tavern was inviting, like stepping into a place he’d always known but somehow forgotten.

Michael swallowed. He had a feeling that whatever happened next was beyond his control.

And for the first time since waking in the dark field, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Chapter 2: Childling

“Sit down. We don’t have all day, as you mortals love to say. Time—such a mortal worry.” Jeoseung Saja utters impatiently, pointing to the comfortable chair across the table.

Michael hesitates but takes a seat, his eyes catching sight of his name on a sheet of paper in front of them. The layout looks oddly familiar—like a character sheet from a game. Beneath it, he notices a few other pages stacked neatly. Before he can wonder what they contain, a voice cuts through his thoughts.

“You’re a lot smaller than I expected. But then again, you are just human.”

Michael looks up to see Dokkaebi grinning at him, his sharp teeth glinting as he takes a swig of his drink.

 Päivätär sighs, shaking her head before turning to Michael with a warm but exasperated tone. “Ignore the creature. Just focus on the task at hand, dear.”

Ukko, his voice deep and booming, waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, he’s short, so you say. But at six feet, he’s taller than the average male in his realm and time. Of course, to us immortals, he is nothing.”

Jeoseung Saja groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. His neurotic energy is palpable as he gestures to the papers. “Please. Can we focus? We have work to do."

"My name is Jeoseung Saja,” he says, exhaling as if he’s had to repeat this a thousand times. “I am what you mortals would call the Korean Grim Reaper. To my left is Ukko, the Finnish god of thunder and wisdom.” He waves a hand lazily toward the imposing figure before continuing. “Next is the lovely Päivätär, a Finnish goddess of the Sun.” His tone flattens slightly on ‘lovely,’ though Päivätär merely rolls her eyes. “And last, we have Dokkaebi, a Korean goblin.”

Jeoseung Saja sighs, rubbing his temple. “He’s here because, supposedly, he’s been your guardian your whole life.”

Dokkaebi grins and tips his drink slightly at Michael and winks.

Michael shifts in his seat, glancing between them. Guardian? That was news to him.

"Michael!” Jeoseung Saja says sternly, his grip tightening on the papers in his hands. “We’ll go over your ‘stats’ and life. Let’s start with your early years, but let’s not linger. If you would, please, share your perspective with us.”

Before Michael can respond, Ukko taps his massive hammer—wait, no, it’s a cellphone? A strange mashup of the two. The hammer, which seemed to glow with divine energy, now looks like a high-tech device. Ukko swipes and taps a few times, and suddenly, Michael is surrounded by a swirling scene of his childhood. The world around him shifts, taking on a sepia tone before clarifying into vivid detail.

“Whoa, is this like VR? What just happened? And what was that, a hammerphone? Does it have 5G?” Michael exclaims as he looks around, his childhood playing out before him.

Michael blinks. The world around him has shifted, and he immediately recognizes where he is. Japan. His earliest years.

He watches as his much smaller self toddles around in the yard, playing with a group of puppies. No other kids—just him and the dogs.

“Huh. Yeah, no other kids around except on base during daycare days,” Michael muses, a touch of realization settling in.

Before he can linger on the thought, the scene lurches, yanking him forward in time. He stumbles, thrown off balance, and suddenly he’s surrounded by snow, a hill, and the distant giggles of children.

“Hey! Don’t do that! That was very rude!” Michael protests, hoping the gods are paying attention.

Looking around, he recognizes the new setting: Massachusetts. He’s still a kid, but older now, playing in the snow with other base kids. He was always the youngest—three or four years younger than the others—but it never mattered. There were so few kids on base that everyone just played together.

He watches as his younger self climbs onto a blue sled. And then, in an instant, he is his younger self. Seated in the sled.

“Show-offs!” Michael calls out. “But cool, now I can actually experience things properly.”

The sled takes off, gliding down the hill at exhilarating speed. He laughs, feeling the rush of cold air on his face, the thrill of the ride—

Then he remembers.

Oh. This is the part where he slams straight into the chain-link fence.

Before he can react, it happens. He crashes. Hard. The impact feels painfully real.

“OW. Okay, not cool! That hurt!”

The other kids burst into laughter, giggling as Michael groans and pulls himself up. He dusts off the snow, muttering under his breath, and then—because that’s just how it was—drags the sled back up the hill, ready to do it all over again.

Ooooh! My first visit to him is coming up!” Dokkaebi announces excitedly to the other gods, practically bouncing in his seat.

Michael hearing this groans. “Great.”

The scene shifts again.

Michael is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He can’t sleep—his stomach churns, his body aches. He remembers this night. He had been sick, really sick. He had thrown up in the hallway earlier, then slipped in it and busted his chin open. He still has the scar. Still hates the memory.

His gaze drifts toward the open door of his room. He sees movement—his mother, walking past in the red floral robe she always wore.

At least… he thinks it’s his mother.

The figure disappears into her room, but then—something else emerges from the darkness.

A face. A snarling, tiger-striped goblin face, rushing toward him with wild, gleeful menace.

Michael flinches, a shudder running through his entire body. Even now, knowing what this is, the memory sends a chill down his spine.

“GAH! I hated that then, and I still hate it! Why did you do that?!” Michael exclaims into the empty room. Then a realization dawns. His eyes narrow. “Wait. That’s why you look familiar.”

Dokkaebi cackles from the table, clearly delighted. “To scare away the evil that was trying to attach itself to you, silly mortal.”

Michael scowls. “Yeah? Wait what?"

Jeoseung Saja proclaims, “Is this really all? Was this all he needed to revisit? Loneliness as a child, some darkness creeping on him, and you, Dokkaebi, scaring him both as a kid and again as an adult?”

Michael is pulled forward again, this time into his childhood in Florida. He sees his old home, standing just as he remembers it. A familiar silence greets him as he steps inside.

He had spent a lot of time alone here. A latchkey kid, as they called it.

Everything looks the same, yet something feels off. A strange melancholy lingers in the air. As an adult, he finally recognizes what his younger self didn’t—his parents had stopped loving each other. The warmth that should have been in a home like this was missing, replaced with something empty and cold. But back then, he hadn’t noticed. He had been too focused on trying to make friends at school.

And that… hadn’t gone so well.

Michael remembers the bullying. The way kids mocked his accent—not Floridian enough. The way they teased him for being tubby. For being Asian and white, something that made him different but not in a way they welcomed.

He remembers the girls laughing at him for always smiling. Always smiling.

Until, one day, he just… stopped.

He watches as his younger self hits the ground, pushed down by other kids, their laughter sharp and cruel.

At the time, he had taken it in stride. His father had always told him, Just brush it off. Don’t take things personally.

Michael lets out a dry chuckle.

“Yeah, tell that to a kid, Dad. That really worked.”

Päivätär speaks softly to Michael. “Your parents did love you. Your father just didn’t know how to express it. Your mother tried her best. They were raised very differently from what you might have expected, but I’m sure they loved you in their own way.”

Michael exhales sharply. “Mmm, yeah, let’s put a pin in that for now.” He leans back slightly. “I will say, though, I eventually made a good friend—the first real one I ever had. We met in the neighborhood, and we became best friends. Even if my parents didn’t like it.”

Before he can reflect further, the scene around him vanishes in a blink. He’s back in the tavern. The flickering candlelight, the low hum of conversation, the scent of spiced mead—it all rushes back to his senses.

Jeoseung Saja is tapping his fingers against the table, his expression one of barely restrained irritation. “Care to explain what the evil was Dokkaebi?”

Dokkaebi just grins, tipping his drink before saying boredly, “Just some spirit—who cares?”

Ukko throws his head back with a booming laugh. “He took care of it scaring the spirit off!"

Dokkaebi grins, leaning back in his chair. “Told you. Problem solved.”

Michael rubs his temples, still adjusting to the abrupt transition back to the tavern. The shift between reliving his past and facing this table of gods debating over his life was giving him whiplash.

Jeoseung Saja sighs dramatically, clearly exhausted with the entire process. “Fine. Since we’re stuck here, let’s move on to something more substantial.” He shuffles through the papers, scanning the text. “Adolescence. That’s bound to be… eventful.”

Michael groans. “Oh, great. Can’t wait.” He pushes back his chair and starts to stand.

Jeoseung Saja narrows his eyes. “Where are you going?”

Michael gestures vaguely toward the bar. “We’re in a tavern. I’m thirsty. I’ll be right back.” He shakes his head, still disoriented from the lingering effects of shifting through time and memories, and makes his way toward the bar.

“Hello, young one. Welcome to the Tavern of Forgotten Fates. I am Nohr, your humble tavern keeper. What would you like? We can make anything you’ve ever had or never had,” Nohr says, their glowing violet eyes locking onto Michael. Their voice is ethereal yet grounded, carrying a sense of ancient wisdom.

“Anything I want, that I’ve had or haven’t… okay…” Michael pauses, considering. Before he can say anything, a glass with a shimmering liquid materializes in front of him, the colors swirling—blues, greens, and reds intertwining in a delicate dance.

“Yes, when we say anything, we mean anything. Though, I’m not sure how this will taste. Your mind combined elements from different realms and genres into one. I do hope you like it. If not, please, don’t hesitate to let me know,” Nohr adds, their smile warm.

“Whoa, wait—did you just read my mind? I was joking about mixing those,” Michael says, a bit taken aback but intrigued. “Alright, I’ll try it, I guess.” He picks up the glass, which feels perfectly cool to the touch, at just the right temperature. He takes a sip of the smooth liquid, and as it travels down his throat, he feels a strange warmth that soothes him. The flavor is sweet yet dry, tart but with a surprising kick. The taste reminds him of blackberries, cherries, and cotton candy, with an unidentifiable spice lingering at the back of his throat.

Michael takes a moment to sip the drink, feeling its effects settle in his chest, before finally looking up at Nohr with a furrowed brow.

“So, what is this place?” he asks, his voice laced with curiosity. “And who are you? What are you, exactly?”

Nohr’s violet eyes gleam with understanding, their expression softening. They take a step closer, their presence both comforting and otherworldly.

“This place is the Tavern of Forgotten Fates, a realm that exists outside time and space. A sanctuary for those who seek to understand the course their lives have taken—or to make sense of what they’ve left behind.” Nohr pauses, their gaze deepening, as if they are seeing something far beyond Michael. “As for me… I am Nohr, a keeper of stories, of paths crossed and not crossed. I am not quite what you might think of as ‘human,’ but I am bound to this place, to these realms, to the tales that pass through them.”

Michael blinks, trying to wrap his head around the words. “So… you’re like some kind of… cosmic bartender?” He laughs lightly, though the humor feels hollow in the strange, dreamlike air of the tavern.

Nohr smiles, though their smile is filled with a quiet wisdom. “Something like that,” they say softly. “But the drink I serve is not just liquid. It is memory, experience, essence. Here, time holds no dominion, and everything that was, is, or will be, converges.”

Michael looks around, feeling both grounded and lost in the same breath. “So, this place is like a… crossroads?”

“You could say that,” Nohr replies. “A place where the paths of many intersect. And sometimes, where those paths can be rewritten.”

Michael furrows his brow, still processing everything, but Nohr’s words pull him back into focus. “What do you mean, ‘rewritten’? What about mine?”

Nohr’s smile fades, their eyes turning solemn. “Unfortunately yours is a bit different, Michael. I cannot tell you more unfortunately, not as of now. The others are waiting for you.” They gesture toward the gods still seated at the table. “They will decide your fate.”

Michael’s stomach tightens. “Oh? But I have a questions though."

"Yes, please, proceed, young one." Nohr replies cosmically calm.

Michael feels a flicker of confusion. “What about the swan? The bridge, the fog? What are they?”

Nohr’s expression softens. “The swan is a guiding spirit, Michael. They help the lost find their way. Though, they can be a little unruly at times. I hope they were kind to you.”

Michael nods, his thoughts racing. “It wanted me to call it The Darkness.”

Nohr chuckles. “Oh, that silly spirit. It loves to have fun. Its name is Selene.”

"And the fog? What’s its role in all of this?” Michael asks.

Nohr’s face hardens, their voice taking on a more serious tone. “The fog is a mystical force. It compels you forward. If you try to turn back, it’ll force you into the River of Souls. Once you’re in, you’re stuck for eternity, lost in limbo. There’s no going back from that.”

Michael feels a shiver run down his spine. “So… if I hadn’t crossed the river, I could have been stuck forever?”

Nohr nods grimly. “Yes. It’s a dangerous place, that fog. It pushes you toward your fate whether you’re ready or not. But, the path you saw—the bridge and field—they are unique to you. Everyone who passes through has their own vision of it. What you saw, what you went through, was for you to experience. Others may see something entirely different.”

Michael’s thoughts swirl, trying to piece together the strange journey he’s been on. “And now, I go back to the gods?”

Nohr gives a small, knowing smile. “Yes. They’re waiting for you. It’s time to face them and let them decide what comes next.”

Michael nods slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle on him. He takes a deep breath before turning back toward the gods, who are waiting for him at the table.

Michael slowly takes his seat at the table, the gods’ eyes on him as he settles into the uncomfortable weight of their gaze. Ukko glares at him with a mix of impatience and amusement.

“So you think your childhood was bad? Bah, it was fine. Kids go through it. I went through it too when I was a child—wait, I was never a child!” Ukko mutters with a gruff laugh.

Before Michael can respond, Päivätäri cuts in, her voice light but with a sharp edge. “Dear, exactly when were you a child? As gods, we don’t have such things. Or have you been playing pretend like Zeus?”

Zeus, who’s sitting across the tavern, bursts out from his seat. “Hey, I take offense to that!” he calls, his voice dripping with mock indignation. The crowd gathered around him erupts in laughter, slapping him on the back and egging him on with shouts of “It’s true!” and “You’re the eternal child!”

Joesoung Saja rubs his temples, already growing exasperated. “Can we please move on? Loneliness as a child, bullying, and the absence of parental love—check, check, check. Let’s not linger on these details anymore,” he says, glaring pointedly at Michael’s character sheet, as though somehow it were his fault the gods are digging so deep.

Dokkaebi, leaning back with a sly grin, interrupts the conversation. “Well, if it weren’t for me, the darkness would have crept in much earlier. I kept an eye on you, Michael. You just never saw me because I chose to hide, invisibly, from you. These fools,” he gestures toward Ukko and Päivätär, “thought I was too much. They always have to remind me that I’m not a god, just a spirit with some powers. That’s all, pfft. Whatever.”

He crosses his arms with a huff, clearly embittered by the way the other gods treat him. His tone carries a mix of annoyance and defiance, but there’s also an undercurrent of pride in what he’s done for Michael. The other gods, unbothered by his outburst, just exchange knowing glances, as though they’ve heard it all before.

Michael stares at Dokkaebi, incredulous. “Wait, so you are the reason I lost things as a kid? I always put things away right and proper.”

Dokkaebi laughs heartily, the sound echoing through the tavern. “Hahaha, oh man, the look on your face—always wondering where your things went. Yeah, I’d take them, play with them a little, maybe break ‘em, then toss ‘em into another realm. Oops, my bad.” He smirks, clearly amused by Michael’s frustration.

Jeoseung Saja slams his hand down on the table, the force of it shaking the papers. “Enough!” he shouts, glaring at Dokkaebi, who just looks up with a grin, completely unfazed.

“We need to move on to the next part of the matter,” Jeoseung Saja continues, his voice sharp.

Chapter 3: Preordained

The tavern hummed with soft chatter and distant laughter, the comforting sounds of eternity flowing like an undercurrent beneath the weighty silence of the round table. Michael, still trying to grasp the overwhelming nature of his current situation, sat awkwardly on the edge of his chair, fidgeting with his hands. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the gods, or if he was even ready for what was about to happen.

Jeoseung Saja, the Korean Grim Reaper, sat at the head of the table, sorting through a stack of papers. His sharp eyes scanned the pages, his cold demeanor casting a sense of clinical detachment. Finally, he spoke.

“Michael, born under normal circumstances,” Jeoseung Saja’s voice echoed in the tavern, “Suicidal ideations noted in teenage years, persistent psychological burden, emotional isolation. His soul is burdened with unprocessed grief.”

Michael winced at the words. They cut too deep, reminding him of all the things he’d tried to bury. He couldn’t help but flinch, but he remained silent, not knowing how to respond. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to argue or just escape.

Dokkaebi, always ready to lighten the mood, snorted loudly. “Oh come on, lighten up, Saja,” he said with a grin. “What’s the big deal? Every mortal has a rough patch. Why break it down like this?”

Päivätär, absent from the conversation, gazed at the walls of the tavern, where shifting images flickered like fragments of memories. She seemed lost in them, her expression soft, thoughtful.

Ukko, ever unyielding, folded his arms. “Can we just get this over with? This mortal’s fate has been sealed long ago. Why bother with details?”

Jeoseung Saja’s expression darkened, and he slammed his hand down on the table with a sharp thud. “It’s not about the details, Ukko! It’s about understanding. About comprehension. What kind of future do we offer him if we don’t understand his past?”

Michael shifted in his seat, feeling the weight of the gods’ eyes on him. This wasn’t just an observation of his life—it was his future, and they all had different opinions on what mattered.

“Fine, fine,” Ukko grumbled, leaning back in his chair. “But can we hurry it up, Saja? I have realms to rule.”

Päivätär finally spoke, her voice lilting and soft. “Isn’t this about his journey? His growth? Doesn’t everyone go through these phases—darkness, loneliness?”

Jeoseung Saja exhaled in frustration. “Yes, everyone goes through these phases. But for Michael, it’s deeper. His darkness wasn’t a phase—it was a weight. A burden.”

Dokkaebi leaned in with a grin. “Ah, so he was all broody and mysterious, huh? Sounds like every teen drama ever. I get it.”

Jeoseung Saja’s glare was sharp. “No, Dokkaebi. This isn’t your typical drama. This is real. Real trauma. Real loss.”

Dokkaebi held his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.”

The room fell quiet, and Michael’s chest tightened. The gods were bickering, yes, but it was about him. His life. His soul. And they weren’t agreeing on anything.

Jeoseung Saja sighed, pushing the stack of papers toward Michael. “I think it’s time we review the details,” he said, his tone more measured now.

Michael glanced at the papers, still feeling a knot in his stomach. “Okay… and what?”

Jeoseung Saja pushed the first sheet toward him. “Those,” he said, “are your character sheets.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, trying to make sense of it. “What, like an RPG? So I’m some character, and these are my stats?”

“Yes,” Jeoseung Saja replied with a hint of impatience. “But it’s much more complex than that. The first sheet is a summary of your stats—essentially who you were in life. The others are your background details, your life story condensed for judgment.”

Michael snorted, glancing over the sheet in his hands. “Okay, sure. Three pages of this… seems like a lot. I don’t even remember half of it.”

Michael’s Character Sheet

Name: Michael (Full name unknown)

Age (at time of death): 37

Race: Human (Half Asian, Half White)

Class: Wanderer (Uncertain, seeking purpose)

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Attributes:

        •        Strength (STR): 12/20

        •        Dexterity (DEX): 15/20

        •        Constitution (CON): 14/20

        •        Intelligence (INT): 17/20

        •        Wisdom (WIS): 10/20

        •        Charisma (CHA): 13/20

Skills:

        •        Combat: Untrained

        •        Survival: 12/20

        •        Social Interaction: 14/20 (Tends to hide behind humor)

        •        Leadership: 16/20 (Past managerial experience)

        •        Insight: 10/20 (Struggles with self-awareness)

        •        Crafting: 9/20 (Can tinker, but prefers comfort)

Equipment:

        •        Main Weapon: None

        •        Secondary Weapon: Knowledge of the mundane world

        •        Armor: None

        •        Other Gear: A few mementos from life, including a broken toy, a locket, and a journal.

Michael raised an eyebrow at the sheet. “Wait, no armor? No weapon? No combat training? Are you serious?” He shook his head. “I took Taekwondo for years. My ‘armor’? It’s literally my black jeans, black shirt, and black hoodie. Get with the times.”

He paused, tapping his fingers on the table. “And my weapon? It’s whatever I can grab when things go south.”

Dokkaebi burst into laughter. “So, exactly what’s written there, huh?” he said, still chuckling.

Michael shot him a glare. “Not funny, Dokkaebi.”

Michael sighed. “This is ridiculous. I’m not some hero. I’m just a regular guy.”

Jeoseung Saja’s eyes softened. “That’s the thing, Michael. You don’t need to be a hero. You don’t need to fit into some grand mold. You just need to understand who you were.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?” Michael asked, feeling a bit exasperated.

Jeoseung Saja picked up the next sheet. “By facing the truth. By looking at what made you, what shaped you, and what you were capable of.”

Michael sat back in his chair, the weight of the gods’ expectations pressing on him. The room seemed to close in around him, the laughter of the patrons, the distant hum of the tavern, all blending into a cacophony. How was he supposed to answer questions about his life when he didn’t even fully understand it himself?

“We’ve got all day, Michael,” Dokkaebi said, giving him a knowing wink. “Might as well buckle up. This ride’s just getting started.”

Jeoseung Saja’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “There is a reason you’re here. You’re not just another soul lost in the ether. You need judgement of what we do with your soul next.”

Michael took a deep breath, ready to face whatever came next. This was only the beginning, but he was beginning to realize that his story wasn’t just a tale of darkness and loss—it was also a story of strength, survival, and maybe if he could do it somehow change.

Michael started to utter, “So why is it that Nohr said I can’t have anything rewritten?”

Ukko’s glare was as sharp as a blade, and his voice, like thunder, rumbled through the air. “Because it is so, child! Just accept it—you are not to change it!” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his annoyance practically radiating off of him.

What just happened? Michael thought, his mind spinning from Ukko’s explosive response. I didn’t expect him to snap like that… or for it to feel like I’ve just been knocked back into my place. They’re gods, yeah, but why does it feel like they’re treating me like a broken toy?

He shifted in his chair, trying to shake off the discomfort. This isn’t how I imagined things going. I’m supposed to be learning, figuring out what I’m supposed to do with this mess they’ve handed me. But it’s not even about me anymore, is it? It’s all about them, what they want me to remember, what they want me to face.

A bitter taste rose in his mouth. I didn’t ask for this—didn’t ask to be dragged into some divine circus where the rules change every second. I don’t even remember half of my life, and now I’m supposed to fix what’s broken, but how do I do that when I don’t even know what’s real?

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Nohr said something about rewriting my past, but… why would they even want to? I don’t know if I can even trust my memories, let alone try to change them. Is there anything in my past worth changing?

His mind raced, thoughts like disjointed fragments falling together and scattering apart just as quickly. What is it they’re expecting from me? What do they think I can do with so little to go on?

He balled his fists, the urge to do something—anything—coursing through him. I might not have asked for this, but I can’t back down now. I need answers. I need to understand what’s happening to me. The last thing I’ll do is sit here, doing nothing while they decide my fate for me. If I’m going to survive this… I have to find a way to change things. I just have to.

Päivätär, ever the calming presence, let out a soft sigh before speaking in a voice that was both patient and resolute. “Listen, Michael. Your fate was sealed by others outside of our controls.” She looked up from the table, her eyes following the shifting images on the walls. One frame showed three women, cloaked in shadow, their faces unreadable and intimidating, their hands raised as though casting a judgment. Then, just as quickly, the image shifted to something more peaceful—a bright meadow under a clear sky, the air full of stillness and calm.

“What… What were they?” Michael asked, his voice quieter now, sensing there was more to those figures than mere symbolism.

“They are the Fates,” Päivätär said, her gaze distant as she stared at the peaceful image. “We don’t control them. They do.”

Michael felt a chill run down his spine as he watched the shifting images, his mind trying to process what Päivätär had just revealed. The Fates. He’d heard of them in passing—mythical figures who supposedly controlled the threads of destiny. But seeing them, even in such an abstract way, made the concept feel too real, too close.

“They control everything?” Michael asked, his voice still soft, trying to wrap his head around the magnitude of it. If they control everything, what’s left for me? His heart pounded faster as the walls seemed to pulse with the movement of the shifting images.

Päivätär gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “In their own way. The Fates weave the threads of our lives, and we follow them. We are bound to the patterns they set, even gods like us.” She paused, looking back at him, her expression unreadable. “You, Michael, were born into a pattern woven by them. Even your actions have been guided, whether you see it or not.”

Michael’s brow furrowed, his mind racing. So… if everything was already decided, why does it feel like I have a choice? He swallowed hard, his thoughts scattering. He felt a weight pressing on him, not just from the gods in the room, but from the realization that maybe his life wasn’t his own to control.

“You think I’m just a puppet then?” Michael muttered, bitterness creeping into his voice despite himself. He wasn’t sure why he felt so angry, but the idea that he was being controlled by something outside his awareness sparked something deep inside him. If I’m just a piece in their game, what the hell’s the point of trying?

Päivätär’s expression softened. “It’s not that simple. The Fates may weave the threads, but we still have the power to choose how we walk along them. We still have agency, even if we’re bound to a larger design.”

Michael’s mind spun. So I have a choice… but only within the boundaries they set for me? He exhaled sharply, frustration rising again. “Great. So I’m stuck walking a path that was laid out for me before I even knew what I was doing?”

Päivätär’s eyes met his with a calm intensity. “No, Michael. You are not just a pawn. You are more than that. It’s not about whether you choose the path or not—it’s about what you do once you realize that path exists.”

Michael stared at her, feeling a flicker of something within him—maybe hope, maybe anger, he couldn’t tell. But he was starting to understand. “So… I’m not helpless. Even if the Fates have set things in motion, I can still do something?”

“Yes,” Päivätär replied, her voice steady and firm. “You may not control everything, but you control what you do with what you’ve been given.”

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time since he had arrived, Michael felt a slight shift in the weight on his shoulders. Maybe I don’t have to figure everything out all at once. Maybe I can still fight… but what am I fighting for?

He exhaled, the weight of his thoughts pressing against him, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel completely crushed by them.

Dokkaebi stood up, his laughter filling the air. “Well, I’m going to go get some food! I’ll be back in time to start any fun and games—don’t start without me!” He grabbed his club and swung it over his shoulder, dragging it behind him as he strolled off toward the door.

Michael’s eyebrow arched in confusion. “Wait, don’t they bring food?”

Jeoseung Saja, looking as serious as ever, answered, his voice tinged with a hint of exasperation. “He likes to eat live animals. So he’s going off on a hunt in the forest somewhere.” He glanced at the door as Dokkaebi’s footsteps faded into the distance. “We can’t stop him. It’s part of his ‘charm,’” Jeoseung Saja added, his tone dry.

Michael stared at the empty doorway, a mix of disbelief and amusement flickering across his face. “I… uh… think I need a moment to process that,” he muttered, glancing back at the gods who seemed unaffected by the whole situation.

Päivätär’s gentle smile returned as she softened her gaze. “Take your time, Michael. There’s no rush.”

Michael blinked in disbelief. “So wait… he eats live animals?”

Jeoseung Saja nodded, a slight edge to his voice. “Yes. He is a goblin, remember? Not like us gods, who are more refined.”

Ukko and Päivätär both nodded in agreement, their expressions matching the gravity of the statement.

Michael felt his mind reel for a moment, trying to wrap around the bizarre nature of the conversation. A goblin eating live animals? He had no idea what kind of world he’d been thrust into, but this certainly wasn’t anything like the one he knew. The thought lingered in his mind, unsettling yet strangely fascinating.

“So… is that normal around here?” he asked, his voice unsure as he tried to gauge the tone of the gods.

Jeoseung Saja raised an eyebrow. “For him, yes. For you?” He paused as though considering something. “Maybe not. But you’re in a place where the unexpected is expected.”

Michael could only chuckle, albeit awkwardly. “Yeah, seems like it.” He glanced toward the door, half-expecting Dokkaebi to burst back in, waving a freshly caught animal in his hand. The idea was unsettling, but somehow it fit with the surreal reality Michael was finding himself in.

Päivätär’s calming presence seemed to soften the strange weight of it all. “Do not worry too much about what happens around here. The rules are different, and the ways of this place are not your own. Focus instead on why you’re here and what you must face next.”

Michael nodded, but it was clear the bizarre exchange had left him more confused than ever. The world he knew had always been strange in its own way, but this? This was on a whole new level.

Michael thought about Selene the swan, the one that had guided him to the tavern. “So, Selene the swan… is potentially a meal?”

“No,” came a voice, soft but firm, right next to Michael.

He whipped around, startled. Nohr stood beside him, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Michael hadn’t heard them or seen them move. It was as though they’d materialized out of the very air.

“When did you—” Michael started, his voice a little too loud with surprise.

Nohr gave a small, knowing smile, their eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “I’ve been here all along,” they said gently, as if the question were an amusing one. “It’s just that the space here works in its own way.”

“How long do we have to wait?” Michael asked, his voice laced with curiosity and apprehension.

Jeoseung Saja sighed, as though the answer was one he dreaded giving. “Not long, I hope. He usually finds some critter fairly quickly and eats it just as fast.” He paused, his expression tightening. “It’s a gruesome scene, and I would never recommend seeing it.”

Michael’s stomach churned at the thought. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe at the absurdity of it all.

“Well, if we’re waiting,” Ukko proclaimed calmly, his voice deep and authoritative. “Nohr, please bring us a proper feast—roast meats, rye bread, cheese, and all the fixings for a proper Finnish banquet. And don’t forget the mead.”

Jeoseung Saja, ever the minimalist, spoke in his usual calm tone. “I’ll have soju. Nothing more.”

Michael sighed softly, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I can’t have rye bread or most of what you’re having because of my celiac, and… well, my ESKD dietary needs.”

Päivätär looked at him, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, my dear,” she replied, her voice warm and teasing. “You don’t need to worry about that here. Those ailments belong to the mortal realm. Here, you are free of them. You have no aches, no pains. Have you not noticed? Your vision—it’s better than ever, and both eyes are yours once again.”

Michael blinked in surprise, then gave a rueful chuckle. “Wait… oh yeah, I forgot about that. I’ve been here so long, I didn’t even notice.”

Odin, seated across the tavern, scoffed loudly. “THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH HAVING ONLY ONE EYE!”

Some of the crowd chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, but you traded yours for wisdom. We don’t think Michael’s trade was as good, though.”

As the feast was set before them, Michael couldn’t help but stare in awe at the spread. The table groaned under the weight of roasted meats, their skin glistening with a perfect golden brown sheen. There were steaming loaves of bread, cracked open to reveal soft, pillowy insides. Platters piled high with cheese—creamy brie, sharp cheddar, and something dark and smoky, whose scent made Michael’s mouth water despite the circumstances. Fresh fruits, berries, and grapes were scattered between the dishes, their vibrant colors contrasting with the hearty fare.

Päivätär smiled softly at Nohr, who had remained standing silently by the door. “Come, Nohr,” she said warmly. “Join us. It’s a rare moment of peace; you should partake.”

Nohr’s gaze flicked over the spread of food, their expression unreadable for a moment before a small nod of acceptance passed between them.

Nohr leaned forward, picking up a piece of roasted boar with an elegant, almost fluid motion. Their eyes met Michael’s, but they didn’t speak—only a knowing smile lingered on their lips as they took a bite.

Päivätär, ever the picture of grace, reached for a piece of rye bread, tearing off a small chunk with ease and placing it delicately on her plate. She glanced up at Michael with a soft smile, as if the act of sharing the meal was some unspoken bond that could bridge the gap between their worlds.

Ukko dug in with the gusto of someone who had been waiting too long for the feast to arrive. His massive hands, though weathered by time and battle, held the meat with surprising tenderness. He didn’t need to say anything—his satisfaction was written all over his face as he tore into his meal.

Jeoseung Saja, on the other hand, was the picture of restraint. He sipped his soju slowly, savoring the taste as he surveyed the table with an air of quiet contentment. His movements were deliberate, as though each bite and sip were a reminder of something deeper, something more significant.

Michael reached for the bread, but before he could take a bite, he hesitated. He could already feel the familiar pang of discomfort in his gut, his body reminding him of the restrictions he’d lived with for so long. Yet, as he picked up the loaf, it was as though the limitations that usually plagued him simply didn’t exist here. His fingers brushed the soft surface of the bread, and there was no sharp twinge of pain, no fear of what it would do to him.

“Is it strange to you?” Päivätär’s voice broke through his thoughts. She studied him with gentle eyes, waiting for him to process the oddity of the situation.

Michael’s gaze flicked from the bread to her, and then to the feast around him. “It’s… like nothing I’ve ever felt,” he admitted. “No pain, no restrictions. It’s like… a different world.”

Ukko chuckled softly from across the table. “That’s the beauty of this place, boy. Here, you’re free of what weighed you down.”

Jeoseung Saja nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him. “And yet, it doesn’t change who you are. It’s simply a reprieve.”

Michael took a deep breath, realizing there was a certain calm in the way they spoke. It almost felt like a permission to be… something else, at least for a while.

He took a bite of the bread, savoring the flavor as it filled his senses. It was perfect—soft and warm, with a rich, hearty taste. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of it wash over him, grateful for the small comfort in a world that was anything but familiar.

As he opened his eyes, he noticed the others were eating too, each in their own way, their mannerisms as unique as their personalities. In this strange place, with all its oddities, he felt, for a fleeting moment, at peace.

The front door swung open, and Dokkaebi strode in, grinning ear to ear. Ukko, Päivätär, Michael, Nohr, and Jeoseung Saja had just finished their meals, their plates now mostly empty.

“I’m baaaaaack!” Dokkaebi announced, dragging his club behind him with a lazy swing. “Did you all miss me? I hope so. Mmm, those cows were delicious—so juicy and full!”

Ninsun sitting nearby turned toward him, her expression shifting from mild interest to disgust. “You monster,” she muttered, appalled.

Dokkaebi paused, then burst out laughing. “Oops, my bad! Hahaha!” He waved a hand dismissively.

Jeoseung Saja let out a long, tired sigh. “Please, Dokkaebi. We still have much to discuss. This break was long enough.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Dokkaebi said with a dramatic groan. Then, turning to Michael, his grin widened. “Oh, almost forgot—got you something.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed an object toward Michael.

Michael caught it instinctively, but the moment he looked down, his stomach twisted. In his palm sat a pair of dice, slick with fresh blood and carved from what looked like bone.

He yelped and dropped them onto the table.

Dokkaebi cackled. “Oops! You rolled a nat 1, kid!” He clapped his hands together, shaking with laughter as he took his seat.

Michael just stared at the dice, unsure whether to be horrified or deeply, deeply annoyed.

Michael stares at the stat sheet again, his brow furrowing. “So, these lower values… was it you who rolled them, Dokkaebi?” he asks, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Dokkaebi scoffs, crossing his arms. “Ha! You wish. Weirdly enough, your stats were already filled in when you were born. That doesn’t happen.”

Ukko nods solemnly. “Yes. Normally, we gods determine the initial values, but yours arrived pre-filled. And stranger still, a lot of them were locked. You started with lower stats, and as you grew, they shifted into what they are now. We had no control over it.”

Michael glances around the table, feeling a weight settle over him.

Jeoseung Saja meets his gaze, his expression unreadable. “That’s why we’re here for judgment.”

“So, wait,” Michael asks, his voice rising slightly. “My sheet was prefilled, my fate was written, and there was nothing I could do about it?!”

The group nods in unison. “Yes,” they say together.

Ukko leans forward slightly. “Yes, child. That’s why you can’t change anything. That’s why I said it’s been written by the Fates—we’re just here to follow through and move on.”

Jeoseung Saja clears his throat. “We still need to determine where your soul goes. That part, at least, hasn’t been filled in.”

Michael blinks. “ What does that mean?”

Jeoseung Saja nods. “Yes. If your soul’s final destination was predestined, then what would be the point of free will?”

Michael opens his mouth, then hesitates. “Oh… that makes sense. Wait—no, but my sheet was prefilled!”

Dokkaebi grins. “Just the stats, kid. Not the backstory.”

Jeoseung Saja sighs, rubbing his temple as he looks at the papers. “Can we please move on to the next section?” His expression darkens slightly as he reads ahead.

“The teenage years.”

He shudders.

Chapter 4: Dissonance

Ukko taps the hammerphone again, the sharp sound reverberating like a call to attention.

“Alright, Michael,” Ukko says, his voice gruff but oddly reassuring. “Time to face the next stage. Your adolescence.”

Michael grimaces, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “Great. My teenage years. Here we go.” His voice is laced with sarcasm, a defense against the rising tide of memories.

A shimmer of light envelops him, and suddenly, the world around him shifts.

“Here I go, blasting off again!” Michael laughs.

“You’re not on Team Rocket!” Dokkaebi yells. “Now focus on your past!”

Michael looks around and realizes he’s back in his childhood home in Florida. “Yup, this is going to be a sight I’ll see forever.”

He glances around, recognizing that he’s in his preteen years. “Wait, I thought we were sending me to my teen years?!”

“Hush, this is important,” Dokkaebi whispers, almost as if apologizing.

Michael watches his younger self, but he can’t quite place the memory. His father walks in, and Michael sees his younger self get up from the couch and approach him, bluntly asking, “Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”

His father hesitates before answering, “Yes… I didn’t know how to tell you. How did you figure it out?”

Young Michael, incredulous, responds, “I’m not stupid. Figured it out a couple of days ago. You know, Mom not sleeping here anymore? Or when she does, it’s on the couch. Or she just comes in to say goodnight but doesn’t stay.”

Michael watches, feeling the weight of the memory again. He murmurs, “Yeah, that won’t ever leave me—life or death. Thanks, folks.”

Michael just stands there, watching time shift and fast-forward. “Huh, yeah, a lot happened in this house. At least no changing locations… that’s nice, at least.”

He doesn’t notice much difference—just minor changes in decor and objects around the house. But it’s nothing significant. He hears his younger self upstairs in his bedroom, so he walks up there to see his teenage self. “Hmm, don’t know what age I was here, but definitely a teen.”

Teen Michael is reading a book on demonology and witchcraft, a weirdly shaped stone on his desk. “So if I read this passage correctly, it means I can summon…” His words become garbled, incomprehensible to Michael.

“Whoa, what the—why did my voice just get all garbled?!” Michael looks at his teen self, who finishes writing something on the rock and pulls a knife from the desk.

“Yesssss,” a voice hisses ominously.

“Whoa, whoa, what?!” Michael exclaims.

None of the gods respond.

"Are you guys seeing this?! Hello? Earth or tavern to the gods!" Michael yells.

Michael watches as teen Michael takes the knife, cuts his finger, and drips blood onto the stone. The rock begins to glow, trembling slightly.

“I don’t remember that part,” Michael murmurs, his voice tinged with unease.

Michael stares, captivated and disturbed by the strange scene unfolding. His teenage self is so engrossed in the ritual, he doesn’t notice the subtle shift in the air. The room seems to grow colder, the shadows longer, as though something unseen is watching.

“Uh, guys?” Michael calls out again, his voice rising in both panic and confusion. “Can someone explain what the hell is happening right now?”

Still, no response from the gods.

Teen Michael finishes his ritual, the stone glowing fiercely now, and a low, unsettling hum fills the room. Michael feels a chill run down his spine. The hum intensifies, echoing like a distant chant in his ears, and for a moment, the air seems to tremble with energy.

Suddenly, a flash of light shoots from the stone, and Michael’s teenage self jumps back in shock, knocking the rock off the desk. It clatters to the floor, the glowing fading as the room returns to its normal state.

Michael takes a step back, his voice quieter now. “Okay, that was… not normal.”

“You didn’t remember that?” Dokkaebi’s voice suddenly rings out behind him, almost playful. “Shocking, I know.”

Michael whirls around to face the god. “You could’ve warned me! What the hell was that?”

Dokkaebi grins, clearly enjoying the moment. “You never learn, kid. But that’s the point of all of this, isn’t it? To learn what’s hidden in the dark corners of your mind?”

The others remain silent, but Michael feels the weight of their stares. He looks at his younger self again, standing motionless as though waiting for something. The air in the room still feels thick, as if the very space holds its breath.

Michael’s voice falters. “What was it… what did I just unlock?”

Jeoseung Saja speaks up now, his tone somber. “A path you may not have been ready for. Be cautious with what you call from the beyond.”

Michael swallows hard. “What… what does that mean?”

Before Jeoseung Saja can answer, there’s a sudden shift. The house begins to tremble, and the walls crack with an eerie, low rumble. Something is stirring, and Michael’s chest tightens with unease.

“Hush, mortal! This is not for you to see,” the hissing voice growls again.

The voice hisses at teen Michael, “You know, it’s been some time since I last saw you. That fool goblin stopped me from attaching myself back then. Good thing you did this ritual while it wasn’t around.”

Michael looks around, searching for the source of the voice. He sees nothing but his teen self, sitting at the desk, motionless.

Michael’s thoughts whirl. What is this? Why is this happening? The voice, low and ominous, continues its cryptic words while his teenage self sits frozen in time, an unwilling participant in a ritual he can’t comprehend.

Is this… something I did?

He looks down at his hands, trying to anchor himself in the present, but it’s useless. He’s trapped in the moment. The air feels heavier, suffocating.

The voice hisses again, its tone mocking. “Foolish mortal, you still think you can change what was already set into motion?”

Michael’s stomach turns, his fists clenching. No, this can’t be real—this can’t be happening.

And then, as if the entire world snaps back into place, the sound of Ukko’s voice booms in, shattering the oppressive silence.

“What’s going on here?!” Ukko’s commanding tone is sharp, the force of his words pulling Michael back into reality. “The signal was lost! We were disconnected, and Jeoseung Saja and Dokkaebi returned to their realm looking like they’d been through an entire battle! Explain yourselves!”

The world around Michael shifts back to the tavern with a jarring rush of clarity. His teenage self vanishes into the past, and he’s left standing in front of the gods again, trying to catch his breath, his heart still racing from the surreal experience.

Jeoseung Saja, rubbing his eyes tiredly, glances at Michael with a hint of concern. “It seems the mortal has been… taken somewhere, though I can’t say where. We were disconnected from him entirely for a moment.”

Dokkaebi, leaning back in his chair, yawns dramatically. “Guess he’s got a knack for drama. What did we miss?”

Michael, now standing amidst the gods once more, stares at them, still trying to process what he just experienced. His body is here, but his mind lingers on what he saw—a ritual, a god’s voice, and a frozen version of himself.

Ukko gives him a knowing look. “We can discuss this later, child. There are more important matters to address. You’ve been through enough for now. Come. Let us return to the task at hand.”

Michael is enveloped once again and transported.

“What the fuck?!” Michael exclaims as his surroundings blur and twist. He stumbles, his vision flickering as if he’s seeing through someone else’s eyes.

When everything settles, he sees it’s only a few months later. The room feels darker, an ominous glow filling the space. It’s not how he remembers it in his youth, and that bothers him. The walls are now lined with strange symbols he doesn’t recognize, flickering faintly, casting long shadows across the room. The air is heavy, thick with an unnatural presence.

What the hell is going on? Michael’s heart races. This isn’t my home anymore. This feels… wrong.

A chill runs down his spine as he takes in the atmosphere. His teenage self is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the air crackles with dark energy, and Michael can feel it all around him—the weight of something ancient and foreboding. He steps forward cautiously, unsure of what he’s about to witness.

As Michael steps further into the room, he hears the unmistakable sound of his teenage self’s music blasting through the stereo. The thumping bass and harsh guitar riffs vibrate through the walls, as teen Michael slams the door behind him, oblivious to the changes in the room.

“Parents… Dad and Mom… they’re so stupid,” teen Michael mutters to himself, pacing back and forth in his room, his hands running through his messy hair. “Want me to be a doctor or join the military. What about what I want? I want to be a famous musician! I don’t want to be a nobody.”

Ukko chimes in with a dry laugh. “Well, teen you was rebellious and angsty.”

Päivätär’s voice is gentle, almost maternal. “Your parents were just giving you options to better your life while you were still young, before you got older. They were trying to guide you.”

Michael scoffs, his voice rising with pent-up emotion. “Yeah, more like ‘do this to make us proud and rich so we can retire easily.’ ‘Be more than I was’—that was my dad’s idea. ‘Be the best doctor’—that was my mom’s idea. And become famous and rich, of course,” he spits out, his frustration seeping through every word. “Never mind what I wanted.”

The gods pause, sensing the intensity of his anger, but Ukko’s face hardens with anger. “Mortal, do not take that tone with me!”

Michael laughs bitterly, his voice laced with defiance. “Yeah? What, you gonna do something about it?”

In an instant, Michael is back in the tavern, seated at the table. Ukko’s gaze locks onto him, his eyes glowing with barely contained rage. “Mortal, I can’t make your afterlife a pain, but I can make you suffer for eternity.”

Päivätär speaks up, her voice calm yet firm. “Whoa, whoa, calm down. Let’s take a step back. He’s acting this way because the emotions came rushing back so suddenly—things he’s probably buried deep down. Let’s just take a breath, you two.”

Ukko slams his fist into the table, the impact sending a small tremor through the surface. He stands, his fury escalating, and storms off, a flash of lightning crackling in the air above him. The crowd murmurs, some of them chuckling. “He’s so dramatic. Worse than some of the other gods we know.”

Michael sits back in his chair, still fuming. Something’s off, though—there’s an underlying tension to him, something that no one seems to notice.

Dokkaebi pipes up with a mischievous grin. “Pooh, you make ole man angry, good one,” he says, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up, Dokkaebi!” Michael snaps.

The tavern falters for a split second, the air thick with something unsettling. The gods and spirits glance around, their attention momentarily drawn to Michael. There’s something about his voice—it’s not quite his, and the ominous tone hanging in the air doesn’t quite match the scene.

Jeoseung Saja finally speaks up, his voice soft but concerned. “Michael, are you alright?”

Michael snaps, his frustration still simmering. “Yeah, why? What is it?”

Päivätär steps in, her voice calm and soothing. “Okay, okay, let’s all take a deep breath.” She places a hand gently on Michael’s shoulder, grounding him. “He’s just checking on you.”

Päivätär gives him a pointed look. “Dokkaebi, can you go get Ukko and bring him back?”

Dokkaebi tilts his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What? Why me?”

Päivätär sighs, rubbing her temple. “Because you’re the only one who can get through to him without making things worse.”

Dokkaebi cackles, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Oh, you think I won’t make it worse? Have a little faith, sunshine.”

Michael exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. His fingers tap anxiously against the table, the restless energy in his body refusing to settle. Something about the way everyone is looking at him—like they’re expecting him to lash out again—makes his skin crawl. He isn’t sure why he feels so on edge. His anger is real, justified even, but there’s something beneath it, something simmering just out of reach.

Jeoseung Saja watches him closely, his unreadable gaze lingering for a moment too long. “Dokkaebi,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet authority. “Just go.”

Dokkaebi sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine, I’ll go fetch the lightning geezer before he turns the whole tavern into a storm cloud.” He stretches his arms overhead before hopping off his seat. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Michael barely hears him leave. His hands have stopped tapping now, curling slightly into fists. The air around him feels heavier than before, like the weight of the conversation hasn’t entirely left him. He swallows hard, but the unease sticks in his throat.

In another room of the tavern, Ukko is furiously hurling lightning at the wall, his anger palpable.

Ukko clenches his fists, electricity crackling between his fingers as he glares at the scorched wall. “Päivätär telling me to calm down,” he mutters under his breath, his voice dripping with frustration. “Bah, the woman always thinks she knows best. If we weren’t… well, if we weren’t together, I’d hate her so much.” His fingers twitch as another bolt of lightning surges forward, striking the wall with a deafening crack. The air hums with the lingering energy, but the tavern remains unscathed, as if mocking his fury. His expression softens for a brief moment, barely a flicker of vulnerability. “But she is the love of my life.”

Ukko exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face as he paces the room. The storm inside him doesn’t fade so easily. The old anger, the helplessness of watching something unravel, it never truly disappears—it just lies dormant, waiting for the right spark.

Dokkaebi saunters in, unfazed by the brewing storm. He lets out a low whistle, hands in his pockets as he surveys the room. “You done throwing a tantrum, old man? Or should I come back after you’ve leveled the place?”

Ukko shoots him a withering glare. “Watch your tongue, goblin, before I—”

Dokkaebi holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Smite me, fry me, send me to whatever realm is most annoying. But let’s be real, you’re just blowing off steam.” He plops down on an empty chair, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “Look, I get it. Being called out in front of everyone? Oof. But you’re letting this eat at you, and that is gonna be a problem.”

Ukko grumbles, crossing his arms. “I don’t need a lecture from you.”

Dokkaebi grins, sharp and knowing. “Good, ‘cause I wasn’t planning on giving one.” He gestures toward the door. “Now, how about we head back before Päivätär starts thinking I actually made things worse?”

Ukko exhales through his nose, the tension still clinging to his shoulders. But he doesn’t argue. With a final glance at the wall—now marked with deep scorch marks despite the tavern’s protections—he turns on his heel and strides toward the door.

At the table, Jeoseung Saja watches as they return, his expression unreadable. He meets Ukko’s gaze, nodding slightly before speaking. “Let’s go again. But this time, let’s be more mindful of what’s happening and ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

With that, Michael is back in his teenage room, but this time, it’s about a year later. The air feels heavier, the dim light casting long shadows across the cluttered space. He spots his younger self perched on the windowsill, cigarette dangling between his fingers, a half-empty bottle of alcohol nestled beside him.

“Yup, passing time like I always did,” Michael mutters, watching the scene unfold. “If it wasn’t playing guitar or video games, it was smoking and drinking.”

He takes a step forward, his eyes sweeping over the room. Something feels off. The furniture is in its usual places, the posters on the walls are the same, but… there are objects scattered across the desk that shouldn’t be there. Strange trinkets, an old book with worn pages, small stones carved with symbols he doesn’t recognize.

Michael’s head throbs as he tries to focus on them. It’s like a pulse, a rhythmic pounding deep in his skull, warning him not to look too closely. The longer he stares, the more his vision blurs at the edges.

“What the hell…” he murmurs, reaching out on instinct.

A voice cuts through the thick air.

“Yeah, you can’t mess with those.”

Michael freezes.

Slowly, he turns to face his teenage self, who has just crawled back through the window, tossing his cigarette out before shutting it.

“What? Wait—did you just say that to me?” Michael exclaims, his confusion twisting into unease.

Teen Michael smirks, a twisted grin spreading across his face. “Yeah. What, you think you’re just watching the past? Nah, man. That demon we freed has plans. I can see you, and this… this isn’t your reality. It looks like yours, but it isn’t.”

Michael’s breath catches in his throat. The room feels like it’s breathing, the shadows stretching unnaturally. A deep chill settles over him, pressing into his bones.

Before he can respond, Ukko’s voice cuts through the air—but it’s warped, garbled, like a radio struggling to find a signal. “H—y, mort—! W—ere a—yo—?” The distortion crackles around him, making the walls pulse as if the world itself is unstable.

Then—

SNAP.

Everything shifts.

Michael stumbles, his vision blurring, and suddenly, he’s back. The dim, oppressive glow is gone. Teen Michael is sitting on the bed, casually playing his guitar, completely oblivious to what just happened. The objects that had pulsed with an unnatural energy are nowhere to be seen.

Michael blinks rapidly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Ukko’s voice, now perfectly clear, grumbles in his ear. “Took you a bit to show up. What happened?”

Michael doesn’t answer right away. He swallows hard, still trying to shake the feeling that he had almost seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

“No, no. I wasn’t in the reality you manifested, Ukko,” Michael says, shaking his head. His pulse still pounds from the encounter. “I saw teen me… and he saw me. He… talked to me.”

Ukko’s expression darkens. His jaw clenches as a low rumble of thunder echoes through the space. “Impossible,” he growls.

Michael exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. The weight of the moment presses down on him. He glances at the spot where the warped version of his past had been. It’s gone now. Everything looks… right. But the unease lingers, a prickling sensation at the back of his mind.

Jeoseung Saja watches him carefully. “We should proceed,” he says, though there’s a hint of concern in his usually unreadable tone.

Ukko, brushing off the moment, asks, “Is this memory important?”

Michael pulls his gaze away from the spot where something had spoken to him. He looks around—his old room, his past self sitting there, strumming a guitar. And then—

It hits him.

A rush of nostalgia, an almost-forgotten ache, washes over him. His posture softens as the memory settles in.

“Yeah…” He leans back slightly, staring at teen him, fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. “I was writing a love song for a girl. Trying to be romantic.”

Päivätär tilts her head, smirking knowingly. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Michael lets out a quiet chuckle, though there’s a distant look in his eyes. “She was a drama girl. Really tall, pretty. Autumn-colored hair, perfect smile. Her voice… soothing and… great.”

Päivätär’s smirk turns curious. “So, what happened?”

Michael exhales, the warmth of the memory fading. His voice loses its lightness.

“I asked her on a date, and she said no.” He pauses. “She thought I was nice and cool, but just wanted to be friends. She had her eyes on someone else. I accepted it and just kind of went home.”

Päivätär nods, her expression unreadable, waiting for him to continue.

Michael chuckles bitterly. “That was just the start of it.”

The world shifts again, and suddenly, Michael is standing in a dimly lit gymnasium, the scene bathed in the glow of cheap string lights. The Prom.

Teen Michael walks in alone, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants. He scans the crowd, searching for familiar faces. His so-called friends had promised they’d meet up, that they’d all go as a group.

They weren’t there.

Michael watches as teen him hesitates near the entrance, checking his phone. No messages. Just silence.

“Yeah,” Michael mutters. “Turns out, they all ditched me to go to some house party instead. Told me they’d be here, hyped it up for weeks. Then just… gone.”

The gods remain quiet, letting the memory play out.

Teen Michael forces a smile and steps further in. He refuses to let it ruin the night. He paid for this damn ticket. He’s going to enjoy it.

And then, she appears—the girl. The one he’d asked out before. She’s here with her date, laughing, completely wrapped up in the moment.

Michael shakes his head. “And just when I think the night can’t get weirder, she comes up to me. Asks me to dance.”

Teen Michael blinks in shock, looking at her, then at her date, who’s across the room talking to someone else.

“What?” Michael mutters to himself, watching the scene unfold. “Why the hell would she—”

Teen him hesitates but then nods. Maybe this is his moment. Maybe she changed her mind.

They dance. For a few minutes, it feels real. Like the night might turn around.

And then her date shows up.

Michael watches, jaw tightening, as the guy pulls her away with an easy grin, whispering something that makes her giggle. She doesn’t even look back at Michael.

Teen him stands there, stunned, hands still half-raised from where they had been holding hers.

“She used me to make him jealous,” Michael says flatly. “And I fell for it.”

The memory shifts again. Homecoming. A different night, a different suit, but the same sinking feeling in his gut.

Michael scoffs, shaking his head. “This one was worse.”

Teen Michael is sitting near the bleachers, trying to mind his own business when a group of guys approaches.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about this part,” Michael mutters bitterly.

One of them, the loudest, grins at teen Michael. “Hey man, we got a dare for you. Go ask her to dance.” He gestures toward a girl standing near the DJ booth.

Teen Michael hesitates. He knows her—she’s popular, way out of his league.

The guys keep pushing. “Come on, dude, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Michael shakes his head. “Yeah, that should have been my first warning.”

Teen Michael finally gives in, walking up to her. He taps her shoulder nervously.

Before he can even get a word out, she spins around, scowling. “Ew,” she sneers.

Then, without hesitation, she slaps him across the face. Hard.

Michael winces, rubbing his cheek as he watches his past self stumble back in shock. But before teen him can even process it, someone shoves him from behind.

It happens fast. He stumbles straight into the refreshment table—right into the massive punch bowl.

The room erupts in laughter.

Michael clenches his fists. He can still feel the cold sticky punch soaking into his suit, the sting of humiliation burning hotter than the slap itself.

The gods remain silent. Even Dokkaebi doesn’t make a joke.

Michael takes a shaky breath, forcing a smirk. “Yeah, fun times.”

Ukko, who has been eerily quiet, finally speaks. His voice is low, dangerous. “If I were there, I would have smote them all.”

Michael laughs dryly. “Tempting, but nah. I just walked out, went home, and tried to pretend it never happened.”

Michael’s eyes flicker as time shifts again, bringing him back to his teen years. He sees himself, now a few months older, smoking pot outside of school.

“Yup. Dumb things as a teen,” he mutters. “I remember that… but my excuse? It helped mellow me out. Which… partly felt true.”

Ukko scoffs, voice laced with disdain. “You didn’t need that to help you. You needed to embrace what made you who you are, not bury it.”

Michael’s frustration bubbles up. “Okay, yeah, you don’t understand what I was going through. My parents’ divorce, my hatred for them, trying to be accepted in society, finding love—It was a lot. I had a lot going on.”

The air shifts—no warning, no transition. Just cold.

Michael’s stomach twists. The scene before him is wrong.

Teen him stands in a dimly lit room, shaking. His breaths are uneven, ragged. His shoulders are hunched, his fingers wrapped tightly around something small and metallic.

Michael freezes. His heart starts pounding in his ears.

“No,” he whispers.

Teen him raises the handgun.

“Oh, fuck… no, no, no…” Michael stumbles forward, but his steps don’t make a sound. His voice doesn’t reach. “I remember this… I was what, 16?”

His voice cracks with the rawness of the memory.

Päivätär inhales sharply, her golden glow dimming. Jeoseung Saja’s face hardens, but there’s something in his eyes—something deeply human. Even Dokkaebi, usually so carefree, shifts uncomfortably.

Ukko says nothing. His storm has stilled.

Michael watches his younger self tighten his grip on the gun. His whole body trembles as he presses the barrel against his temple.

Teen Michael’s lips move, but no sound comes out.

Michael knows what he’s saying. He doesn’t need to hear it. He remembers.

I’m sorry.

The gods hold their breath.

Michael’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “Fuck. Fuck. God, I hated this. I was so desperate for something good that… I thought this was the only option.”

His voice breaks.

Teen him shuts his eyes. His finger twitches on the trigger.

And then—

Nothing.

The gun doesn’t fire. The silence is deafening.

Instead, teen Michael’s grip slackens. The gun slips from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

His legs give out. He crumbles, burying his face in his hands, sobbing so hard it shakes his whole body.

“Ukko, stop this. Pull him out now!” Jeoseung Saja’s command is sharp, cutting through the heavy air.

Michael doesn’t move. He can’t. His whole body feels locked in place as he watches himself break.

The gods remain silent. Not even Ukko speaks.

Time lingers, stretching out the agony.

"I stopped everything… but…” Michael murmurs softly, his voice thick with emotion. “That moment… I was so close, but I couldn’t do it.”

The air around him wavers. Something feels… off.

Suddenly, the world shifts again.

The tavern is silent.

Not just normal silence—the wrong kind. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The kind that doesn’t belong.

The only sound is the soft flicker of the torches, the distant murmur of other patrons oblivious to what just happened.

Ukko’s gaze, still simmering with restrained emotion, flicks back to the table—

Michael’s chair is empty.

Ukko’s eyes narrow, their glow dimming for just a second. “…I—Where is he?” His voice, usually so commanding, wavers slightly. He stands, scanning the space around them, his jaw tightening.

Päivätär, who had been watching Michael so carefully just moments ago, inhales sharply. “He was just—” She stops herself, her golden glow flickering. Her hand presses against the table, as if grounding herself.

Jeoseung Saja doesn’t move at first. But his fingers come together, his gaze sharpening into something dangerous. “He was just here,” he says, his voice disturbingly even. It’s not a question. It’s an observation. A confirmation that something is wrong.

Dokkaebi lets out a small chuckle, but it’s forced. “Poof! Maybe mortal man wanted some air.” He leans back—then glances at Michael’s untouched drink. His grin falters. His expression darkens. “…No. No, wait. This ain’t right.”

A heavy pause settles over the table.

The gods stand in a circle, uneasy, their eyes flickering toward the empty chair Michael had been sitting in. His absence presses in on the tavern, like something unnatural hanging in the air.

Päivätär’s brow furrows, her voice laced with concern. “This is… strange. We didn’t move him.”

Jeoseung Saja’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping the room. “Where did he go?” His voice holds the first tremor of worry.

Michael, meanwhile, is nowhere near the tavern anymore.

The world shifts around him, an intense weight pulling at his chest as the dark room around him feels like it’s closing in. His vision blurs for a moment, then sharpens, only to reveal his teenage self—standing there, still and silent.

There’s a coldness in the air now, like something wrong is watching him.

Teen Michael slowly lifts his head, and for a moment, everything goes wrong—his smirk is too wide, his eyes too dark. The light around him flickers, like it’s losing its shape. His reflection in the window is twisted, grotesque.

Michael feels his heartbeat slow, an icy chill creeping down his spine. “What’s… going on?” The question trembles out, his voice thick with disbelief.

Teen Michael’s laugh is an eerie rasp—low, distorted, almost a growl that seems to reverberate through the very walls. “Oh, you don’t get it yet, do you? You think you’re in the reality the gods showed you? Nah, we’re beyond that. This—this isn’t your reality anymore.”

The room shifts violently, like the walls bend inward, just for a second, distorting the space around Michael. It feels wrong. The air gets heavier. Every breath Michael takes feels like it’s been tainted by something that shouldn’t be there.

Teen Michael steps closer—his feet barely touching the floor, as if he’s not quite walking, but gliding toward Michael. His eyes—black for a brief second—seem to bleed into the very shadows of the room.

“You remember all the emotional baggage, don’t you?” Teen Michael murmurs, his voice now a low whisper, as if it’s coming from inside Michael’s mind. “The shit you buried because you couldn’t handle it? The pain?”

Michael’s head throbs, the room spinning. The walls start to sway, the edges flickering in and out of focus. He can’t tell if it’s his memory shifting or if it’s something else entirely. The reality around him is unraveling at the seams.

“You think you were just sad, just lost?” Teen Michael’s voice darkens. “No. The demon? He wanted us—and we were too weak to do anything about it. But with you? Oh, with you, we were able to set things in motion. And now…”

He takes another step closer, his figure bending slightly, like something unnatural in the air is pulling at him. His grin widens.

“He’s not done with us. We’re his vessel now. His puppet.”

Michael’s pulse races, his breath shallow, his skin crawling. The weight of the words crushes him. His eyes begin to blur, the floor beneath him feeling like it’s about to drop out.

Time doesn’t feel right.

Suddenly, the world around him fractures, like a shattered mirror—light splintering everywhere. The ground tilts and cracks beneath his feet. The room is shifting too fast to hold onto, the walls stretching and folding in on themselves.

Michael stumbles, his hand shooting out for support, but his fingers touch nothing. A sudden feeling of suffocating darkness envelops him, pushing against his chest, making it harder to breathe.

And then—SNAP.

The world stops.

Michael gasps, suddenly aware of the cold sweat soaking his shirt, the knot of dread in his stomach.

He’s back.

The tavern is silent, still. The gods are watching, waiting. Michael is sitting in his chair, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. The air feels heavy around him, like it’s pressing down with an almost tangible force.

Päivätär steps forward, concern in her eyes as she reaches out to gently wipe his forehead with a napkin. “You’re cold. You’re drenched in sweat. Where did you go?”

Michael’s voice cracks, a mixture of frustration and fear twisting his words. “What the fuck just happened?!”

His breathing is erratic as he tries to make sense of everything, but the pieces refuse to fit. The memory, the demon—it feels like something still lingers just beneath the surface.

Jeoseung Saja’s voice is calm but carries an edge of caution. “It’s been about… ten hours, give or take. Did you get stuck somewhere during the shift?”

Michael looks around at the gods, his eyes darting between them. He’s trying to stay grounded, but the feeling that something isn’t right—that something is still watching him—won’t let go.

Päivätär gives him a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You’re alright,” she says, though her tone wavers, uncertain.

But Michael knows it’s a lie.

The demon is still there.

Michael blinks, looking around in disbelief. “How do you know it’s been that long? It felt like I was stuck in that… reality with my other self, talking for maybe a few seconds.”

Dokkaebi, grinning mischievously, points toward a clock on the wall. “That tells time,” he says, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “You know what a clock is, right?”

Michael turns and notices the clock, wedged between the shifting framed pictures on the wall. It’s something he hadn’t noticed before. For a moment, he wonders if it was always there, but perhaps it had simply seemed too ordinary to draw his attention.

As Michael stares at the clock, the seconds ticking away in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sensation of time warping begins to sink in. The hands of the clock move too smoothly, as though the passage of time itself is being messed with. The faint sound of ticking grows louder, becoming almost oppressive in the stillness of the room, until it echoes in his ears like a rhythmic drumbeat in the back of his mind.

Michael’s gaze flickers back to the gods, but they’re still watching him in silence. Their eyes, glowing with the faintest hint of suspicion, never waver, as if they’re waiting for him to make the next move, waiting for him to piece together what’s happening.

“Well, maybe you’ve got a point,” Michael mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself. “But that was… different. It was like I was actually there. Like… I felt everything.”

Dokkaebi, seemingly unbothered by the weight of Michael’s words, shrugs. “Yeah, well, reality has a funny way of bending around you, doesn’t it?” His voice carries a mock sympathy, but there’s something in his expression—something that doesn’t quite match the playful tone. “You weren’t stuck. Just… exploring. Sometimes, time likes to mess with you when you’ve got a lot of weight on your mind.”

Michael, already feeling the oppressive weight of the earlier memory clinging to him, takes a step back. His mind is still racing, but his body feels rooted to the spot. “So that… that wasn’t just a dream? It wasn’t just me getting lost in my head?”

Jeoseung Saja, watching Michael closely, finally speaks, his voice measured and steady, like he’s trying to cut through the fog that has settled in the room. “It wasn’t a dream, Michael. The demon you freed—he’s been working through those moments, pulling at you. That… reality you saw, it’s something more than just a memory. It’s a reflection of what you could have been if certain things had gone differently.”

Michael flinches at the words, his heart stuttering in his chest. The truth of it hits him harder than he expected. His own other self, the one he saw in the vision, was only a fragment of what he could have been. But the fact that the demon was involved—that it was still pulling the strings—makes it feel as though nothing in his life has been his own choice.

Päivätär watches him quietly, her eyes soft but with an undercurrent of concern. “What you saw wasn’t just a past, Michael. It’s a tangled web, connected to what you are now. And what you are yet to become.” Her tone shifts, taking on a deeper, more introspective quality. “You’re no longer just the person you were when you freed that demon. He’s in you now, shaping your path. The weight you carry, the choices you make—they’re not just yours anymore.”

Michael, the weight of her words settling like a stone in his chest, tries to shake off the growing sense of panic. But it sticks, lingering in the back of his mind. “So… that means I’m never really in control? Not anymore?”

The room falls into an unsettling silence, the gods all still watching him, their gazes unreadable. For a long moment, the only sound is the steady ticking of the clock, louder now, like a countdown to something unseen.

Finally, Ukko speaks, his voice low, serious, and almost regretful. “Control is an illusion, Michael. The demon feeds on the idea that you can control your fate. But the truth is, you’ve already been marked. And the more you fight, the more you’ll realize there are things far beyond your grasp.”

A shiver runs down Michael’s spine as he takes another look at the clock, its hands moving faster now. Time is slipping away, faster than it should. The ticking becomes faster, more erratic, until it’s almost a blur. And the weight—the pressure on his chest—intensifies.

For a moment, Michael wonders if the ticking is coming from inside his head, if the sound is some kind of warning, pulling him toward something he isn’t ready for.

But before he can respond, the world around him ripples again, the tavern’s walls shifting. The clocks stop. The air becomes thick with anticipation, as though something monumental is about to happen.

And just as quickly, the world goes still again.

“Now,” Ukko says softly, “we move forward. Time waits for no one, Michael.”

POP.

Suddenly, Michael’s surroundings blur, and a strange, disorienting pressure builds in his head. The world around him spins, and everything seems too vivid, too real—like he’s caught in some nightmare he can’t escape from.

Then, with a sudden jolt, he finds himself on the floor of the tavern, the cold stone pressing against his cheek. His heart races, and his body tenses, instinctively pushing himself up, but everything feels off, like his limbs are moving too slowly.

The gods are all staring at him, their concerned gazes locked onto him as if waiting for something.

Päivätär is the first to move, reaching out a hand to help him back into his seat. “Michael,” she says softly, her tone filled with an unspoken understanding. “Are you alright?”

But Michael recoils, pulling away from her hand, a fierce sense of distrust surging through him. “No,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “I don’t trust this. None of it. Nothing’s right anymore.”

His eyes dart around the tavern, trying to make sense of everything, but it feels like the walls are closing in, warping. The gods, the space, everything seems like a puzzle, a trap, just waiting to snap shut. His breathing becomes shallow as panic starts to rise.

Ukko narrows his eyes at Michael, the god’s expression hardening. “You think you can just shut us out now?” His voice is laced with a hint of frustration, but there’s something else—a challenge, like he’s trying to push Michael back into submission.

Michael’s voice trembles, raw with emotion. “I don’t know what’s real anymore! I don’t trust what’s happening! I don’t trust you!”

The room seems to tilt, as if reality itself is shaking, and Michael grips the edge of the table to steady himself. “Every time I close my eyes, I can’t tell what’s real. I don’t know if I’m really here, or if I’m just… trapped in my own mind.”

Dokkaebi watches him closely, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “Come on, now,” he says, his usual lightheartedness tinged with something more serious. “You can’t let yourself get caught in that spiral, man. You’ve been through a lot, but don’t let it control you.”

The weight of the moment lingers as Michael takes a deep breath, still unsure, still fighting against the dread swirling inside him. There’s no telling what’s real anymore—and that realization is more terrifying than anything he’s faced.

Chapter 5: Nohr

Michael shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he scans the room. The gods remain silent, watching him with unreadable expressions. But the weight of the quiet, the tension pressing into his chest, tells him one thing—he’s about to be given something he doesn’t fully understand.

At the far end of the tavern, Nohr sits in stillness, an unshakable presence in the chaos of Michael’s thoughts. There’s something unsettling about them—not in a threatening way, but in a way that speaks of something ancient, something beyond time. A quiet power that doesn’t need to be announced.

The Tavern Keeper hasn’t spoken, but Michael feels it. An unspoken understanding. It’s time. He needs answers.

Slowly, he stands. The tavern is alive—laughter, conversations, the clinking of mugs against wooden tables—but it all feels wrong. Like an illusion of normalcy draped over something far stranger. He catches bits of conversations—gods joking about the weather in other realms, spirits laughing over an ancient curse, a whispered mention of a lost artifact. The way they speak, as if nothing is amiss, only deepens the unease curling in his gut.

And then there’s Nohr.

Michael swallows hard, his steps cautious as he moves toward them. The stillness around Nohr is suffocating and steady all at once, like standing at the edge of an abyss and realizing it’s looking back.

Nohr regards him with quiet patience. Their voice, when they finally speak, is steady. A grounding force against the storm in Michael’s mind.

“Hello. How can I help you?”

Michael hesitates. His throat is dry. “Is this real? Am I really here?”

Nohr tilts their head, an amused glint in their eye. “Yes, Michael. You are here.” They pause, watching him carefully. “You were gone only a fraction of a second longer than the others. Just a moment.”

Michael’s stomach drops. “That’s not possible. They said I was gone for ten hours.” Panic tightens his voice.

Nohr watches him calmly. “When did they say that?” Their expression is unreadable, as if the question itself is irrelevant. “You appeared on the ground, unconscious. Are you unwell? Would you like me to look into you?”

Michael stiffens. “Look into me?”

Something about the way they say it—so casual, so matter-of-fact—makes his skin prickle.

Nohr’s voice is quiet but firm. “Your mind. Your soul. Your heart. I can see all that is, was, or will be.” There’s no arrogance in their tone, only certainty.

Michael swallows hard. “Does it hurt?”

Nohr chuckles, a sound both deep and light at once, reverberating with something unplaceable. “No, Michael. It is painless.” Their head tilts slightly, eyes gleaming with something ancient. “And I have a special chamber where we can speak in private. Sometimes, the truth takes time to see clearly.”

Michael glances around, still uneasy. “And the tavern? Who’s going to watch over it?”

A flicker in the air.

And suddenly—there are two of them.

Michael recoils, heart pounding. Standing next to Nohr is another figure, nearly identical, but subtly different. This one’s skin has a muted gray tone, their presence carrying a weightier stillness.

The second Nohr speaks, their voice a deep resonance. “I am also Nohr.”

Michael’s breath catches. He looks between them, struggling to process what he’s seeing. “There’s… two of you?”

Both figures nod. “Yes. But there is only I.”

Their voices overlap in perfect unison, one deep, one light, the contrast striking. The shift is subtle—one moment, the first Nohr’s features are sharper, their presence edged with a playful impatience; the next, the second Nohr radiates quiet authority, an unwavering force. Two halves of the same whole.

Michael exhales shakily. “So, you’re telling me… you can exist as one or split into two? And you’ve been like this since—”

“The beginning of the cosmos,” they finish together.

His mind reels.

The feminine Nohr, her skin carrying a faint red hue, crosses her arms, watching him with something bordering on amusement. “Yes, Michael. We are one and two. We are both, and neither. We are whole, and yet we are separate.” She smirks slightly. “But I suspect that’s a bit much for your mortal brain to process all at once.”

Michael’s throat tightens. He’s not sure what unnerves him more—the fact that they split into two, or the fact that they don’t see anything strange about it.

The masculine Nohr, his gray-toned presence more grounded, watches Michael with quiet patience. “Do you understand now?”

Michael hesitates. “I… I think so.”

The feminine Nohr exhales dramatically. “Well, that’s good enough for now.” She gestures toward a dark hallway at the far end of the tavern. “Come on. I’ll show you to the door.”

Michael follows warily. As they move through the tavern, the usual chatter seems distant, like an echo of something already past.

The hallway is dimly lit, lined with intricate carvings that seem to shift when Michael isn’t looking directly at them. At the end stands a massive door, dark wood inlaid with swirling patterns that pulse like a heartbeat.

Michael hesitates. “You’re not coming with me?”

The feminine Nohr chuckles, leaning against the wall. “Not quite. You’ll have to go through him.”

The air thickens. The masculine Nohr appears beside the door, waiting. His presence feels different now, heavier, like standing at the base of an ancient mountain.

Michael swallows. “What… what is this? What’s going to happen to me?”

The masculine Nohr studies him. “I will show you what you need to see. Your heart. Your soul. Your mind. Everything you have hidden from yourself.” His voice carries a finality that sends a chill down Michael’s spine. “This is not about power. It is about clarity.”

Michael glances back at the feminine Nohr, but she only shrugs. “Don’t look at me. You wanted answers. He’s the one who will give them to you.”

Michael’s pulse pounds in his ears. He looks at the door, then back at the masculine Nohr.

“Are you ready?” Nohr asks.

Michael exhales slowly. “No.”

Nohr’s lips curve in the faintest of smiles. “Good. That means you’re paying attention.”

And with that, the door swings open.

Chapter 6: Linger

As the feminine Nohr walks back to the bar after leading Michael to the Heart Sanctum, Jeoseung Saja rises from his seat, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Where did Michael go? What’s happening to him?” he asks, his voice low but laced with curiosity.

Nohr glances at the closed door of the Heart Sanctum, then back at Jeoseung Saja, their voice a mixture of amusement and mystery. “Oh, you know. Just the usual. Memory shifts. Lost minds. The stuff of legends.”

Jeoseung Saja tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together. “How long does this… ‘stuff of legends’ take?”

“No idea,” Nohr says, a playful glint in their eye. “Could be moments. Could be eons. Why don’t you all relax and enjoy the show?”

Jeoseung Saja frowns, still perplexed, but nods and heads back to the table where Ukko, Päivätär, and Dokkaebi are watching the hallway, expressions varying from tense to curious.

“So what’s going to happen to Michael?” Dokkaebi asks, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “Is Mr. Big Gonna break him and put him back together like a toy?”

“No, Dokkaebi,” Jeoseung Saja replies with a sharp look, but his lips twitch in amusement. “Nohr is going to help him. Not… ‘reassemble’ him.”

“Well, then what do we do?” Ukko mutters, knocking back his goblet. “Just sit here? How long are we waiting?”

“Patience, Ukko,” Päivätär says softly, though her gaze remains fixed on the hallway, worry in her eyes like a mother’s over a child in the doctor’s office.

Jeoseung Saja sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not the one who needs to wait. I’ve got a ton of souls to tend to. You all can keep waiting.”

“Wait… you’re leaving?” Päivätär’s voice sharpens, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it.

Jeoseung Saja smiles thinly. “Hundreds of souls crossing over a minute. My department is a bit understaffed, you see.”

“Bureaucratic nonsense,” Dokkaebi mutters with a playful eye roll before he gets up and heads for the bar.

With that, Jeoseung Saja vanishes in a blink, his presence gone in an instant.

“Well, I guess we wait now.” Päivätär sighs, but there’s a sense of resignation in her voice, as though she knows there’s no other choice.

Meanwhile, in the Heart Sanctum, Nohr leads Michael into the center of the room where a plush couch and chair sit near a low coffee table. The table is surrounded by flickering candles, each flame glowing in different colors, and incense swirls in the air, adding an ethereal and somewhat mysterious quality to the atmosphere.

“Please, Michael, lie down on the couch. We need you comfortable,” Nohr says, gesturing toward the soft seating. Their voice is warm, yet there’s an edge of something else—a quiet, almost teasing energy that makes Michael’s nerves feel even more frayed.

“Uh… okay,” Michael replies, hesitating for a moment before lying down. He can’t shake the feeling that something about this whole situation feels strange. Is he going to be my shrink? he wonders, a bit lost in his thoughts.

“Something like that,” Nohr responds with a sly smile, sensing Michael’s mental wanderings. “But I’ll be going much deeper into you. Into your soul, your heart, and your mind.”

“Fuck… forgot you can read my mind,” Michael mutters, a little embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Nohr chuckles softly, their voice teasing but kind. “Apologies aren’t needed.” They move toward the nearby table, carefully picking up a teapot. “I’ll get us some tea. It will help calm your nerves and assist in linking us better.”

As Nohr pours the tea, Michael can’t help but notice how the gentle, almost playful energy flows from them. There’s something in the way Nohr moves, the way their eyes linger for just a moment too long, making Michael feel like he’s both at ease and a little on edge all at once. It’s a strange mixture, one that makes him wonder what’s going to happen next.

“This tea is a secret recipe,” Nohr says with a smirk, watching Michael carefully. “I’d tell you what it’s made of, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Michael freezes, staring wide-eyed. “What?!”

Nohr bursts into laughter, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Oh, relax. The look on your face just now—too cute. I’m kidding. It’s chamomile-based, with some echinacea and indica. Would you like a little honey mixed in to sweeten the flavor?”

Michael blinks, still unsure whether to take Nohr seriously. “Uh, sure,” he says, his voice a little shakier than usual.

Nohr leans forward with a smile, their tone playful but soothing. “Relax, I’m just teasing. I’m not going to do anything.” They take a seat on the chair next to the couch, crossing their legs in a calm, collected manner.

Michael exhales slowly, trying to ease his nerves. He’s not sure whether to feel embarrassed or relieved. Probably both.

"Once we link, I’ll be able to see everything that ever was, is, and will be,” Nohr says, their voice taking on a calm, almost reverent tone.

Michael blinks, slightly overwhelmed. “Will be? But I died from what my sheet sa—”

Nohr places a finger gently on Michael’s lips, silencing him. “Shh. Let’s not worry about what that says right now. Let’s figure out what’s going on inside you.”

As Nohr watches, Michael slowly takes another sip of the tea. A soothing warmth flows through him, and the sweetness of the brew moves down his throat, calming the tension in his chest. A soft sigh escapes him as he leans back, feeling a strange, sudden weightlessness. The world around him shifts, colors bending and bleeding into each other, like the edges of reality itself were being erased.

“Wow… that fast?” Michael whispers, his breath shaky. The sensation is dizzying but oddly comforting.

Nohr chuckles softly, their eyes glinting with a touch of amusement. “Well, let’s dive in and see what we can do.”

As the room around Michael seems to fade away, Nohr’s voice remains steady in his mind, guiding him deeper. The link is established, and they are no longer just two beings in the room—they are connected, bound by something far greater, as though Michael’s very soul is laid bare.

As Michael sinks deeper into the experience with Nohr, the Heart Sanctum fades into the background.

He is reeling—falling—tumbling through a slow, dreamlike descent. The sensation is weightless, almost gentle, but disorienting. As he looks around, his surroundings take shape, and recognition dawns. The walls are lined with cabinetry, each shelf overflowing with ticking clocks and ancient tomes. Teacups spill out of the cabinets, their contents sloshing midair but never quite falling.

Michael barely registers the ground beneath him before landing unceremoniously on his rear.

“Oof… Okay, wait—am I… No, no, no. This is dumb. Am I in Wonderland?”

He glances down at himself, and his suspicions are confirmed—he’s wearing Alice’s outfit. Not the classic blue dress, but something eerily similar to the darker version he remembers from a certain video game, adorned with strange glyphs and twisting symbols.

“Huh. Okay, so not exactly the Alice, but a version I know. Cool, cool, cool,” he mutters, running his hands over the apron. Then, an idea strikes him. “Wait—do I have the knife she has?”

He pats down the pockets, feeling for the comforting weight of the weapon. Nothing.

“Nope. Lame.”

As he takes in his surroundings, his gaze lands on a familiar setup—a tiny door nestled into the base of the wall and, at the center of the room, a table with a bottle labeled Drink Me and a cookie beside it with a note that says Eat Me.

“Oh, I know this trick.”

Michael grabs both the bottle and the cookie without hesitation. He crams half the cookie into his mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of the vile-tasting potion. As expected, his body begins to shift, shrinking down to just the right height for the miniature door.

Michael approaches the door and pauses, narrowing his eyes. The doorknob looks oddly familiar.

A chuckle escapes him before he covers his mouth, stifling his laughter. “Nohr… are you seriously the talking doorknob?”

Nohr lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Yeeessss. Why this form? No clue. But I see you figured out how to get here quickly.” Their voice takes on a teasing lilt. “Also, don’t you look absolutely fetch in that getup?”

Michael glares at them. “We are not making ‘fetch’ happen.” He gestures impatiently. “Now, be a good doorknob and open up so I can move on.”

Nohr smirks—or at least, their doorknob equivalent of smirking. “Ah-ah, not so fast.” Their voice shifts into a sing-song riddle. “You need the key. Tell me, did you remember to grab the key before drinking?”

Michael freezes, then slowly turns his gaze back toward the towering table behind him. What was once a simple surface now stretches into the sky like an 80-foot skyscraper. Perched precariously on the edge is a small, gleaming key.

His jaw drops. “Wait… that wasn’t there a second ago!” He throws his arms up. “How the fuck am I supposed to get that when I’m this tiny?!”

Michael stares up at the impossibly high key, pacing back and forth, his mind whirling in circles. “How the hell am I supposed to get that?” he mutters to himself. The more he thinks, the more the problem seems to twist and grow larger, like some bizarre puzzle with no solution.

Michael paces in frustrated circles, muttering under his breath. “How am I supposed to reach it? It’s just—” In a sudden burst of exasperation, he slams his foot onto the ground. The vibrations send the key tumbling from its perch, falling to the ground with a soft clink.

With a victorious grin, Michael rushes over, snatching it up and holding it out triumphantly. He looks at Nohr, still in the form of the talking doorknob. “Open up and let me in.”

Nohr refuses to open their mouth, keeping it locked tight.

“What gives? I have the key!” Michael exclaims.

Nohr barely parts their lips, speaking in a faint whisper. “You need to find the missing piece.”

Michael stares, bewildered. “I’m sorry—could you say that louder? And, I don’t know, actually enunciate this time?”

“I said, you need to find the missing piece,” Nohr repeats, this time loud and clear—then immediately shuts their mouth tight again.

Michael narrows his eyes. “Missing piece… What could Nohr mean?”

His gaze drifts around, scanning the towering cabinetry. Then, in the distance, he spots something glinting—partially obscured by pulsing vines and jagged thorns.

“I wonder if that’s what I’m after,” he thinks, taking in the scene. The open drawers and books scattered on their sides almost look like a makeshift path, like something out of a video game.

Michael exhales and starts forward, carefully following the trail. As he moves, a thought nags at the back of his mind: What happens if I die here? How many hearts do I have left in my own subconscious? And do I even have enough quarters for a redo?

Michael steps cautiously onto the books and drawers, but the moment his foot hits one, it flickers. One second it’s solid, the next it’s a series of static-filled pixels. He stumbles as the path beneath him disappears, his heart racing. The pieces of the path vanish and reappear unpredictably. He barely manages to keep his balance as the surface beneath him glitches, leaving him with no choice but to leap across gaps. As he leaps, he notices more paths flickering ahead, forcing him to plan his movements carefully, timing his jumps to avoid falling into the glitching void.

Suddenly, one book shoots out of the shelves, nearly knocking him off course. Michael grabs it instinctively, using it as a stepping stone for the next leap. “Focus, Michael,” he mutters to himself, trying to push back the panic creeping in.

As the flickering continues, the path twists into unfamiliar territory, forcing Michael to question his direction. “Was this the right way? Or am I lost?” he thinks, his trust in his instincts wavering. But he pushes forward, finally managing to find solid ground once more.

With each step forward, the voices begin. Soft at first, like whispers, then growing louder, distorted like broken radio signals. They are fragmented pieces of voices he recognizes: his parents, his old friends, even his younger self. They echo doubts and accusations that worm their way into his mind.

“You’ll never be enough,” one voice says, a distorted version of his mother’s tone.

“You always fail,” his own voice sneers from the distance.

“You’re not worth saving,” another voice mocks, this one unfamiliar, cold.

Michael’s breath catches as the voices swell, a cacophony of shame, regret, and insecurity. He clutches his head, trying to drown them out, but their relentless whispers press harder. He stumbles, half-blinded by his inner turmoil.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to focus. He knows these voices, these doubts—they’re not real. They’re just fragments of his fears.

“You’re not them,” Michael whispers to himself, clenching his fists, trying to quiet the voices. “You’re not them!”

With a renewed sense of resolve, he pushes through the storm of doubt, but each step feels heavier, like the ground beneath him is trying to pull him back.

The pathway ahead flickers again, and this time, the glitched figures aren’t just fleeting visions—they’re tangible, moving toward him. Distorted versions of himself, faceless and eerie, appear from the shadows of the shelving.

They move in jerky, unnatural motions, glitching like corrupted files. Each figure represents an aspect of himself he fears or hates—the reckless parts, the mistakes he’s made, the parts of him he doesn’t want to face.

One of them, a distorted version of his younger self, leaps toward him with outstretched arms, trying to drag him into the darkness. Michael’s heart races, his instinct screaming at him to flee, but he stands his ground, his feet planted firmly as he faces the shadow.

He swings his arm, knocking the shadow back, but more continue to emerge, surrounding him. Every figure, every shadow, every glitched-out version of himself, tries to drag him under. His breath quickens, and his chest tightens—he feels cornered.

But he remembers Nohr’s words, the message about finding the missing piece. These enemies, these shadows—they’re distractions. He has to let them pass, face them without giving in to their grip.

He takes a deep breath, remembering who he is—not what the shadows want him to be. With that thought, he moves forward, the shadows vanishing as he steps through them, each one flickering out like a forgotten memory.

As he nears the heart fragment, the path twists unnaturally. The space around him seems to stretch and fold on itself, and suddenly, Michael finds himself at the beginning of the path again, as if time had reset.

He looks around, confusion settling in. “Wait… Wasn’t I just here?”

A moment later, he sees himself ahead—his past self, struggling through the same obstacles. The same doubts, the same fears, the same glitched figures. He’s caught in a loop.

His frustration builds. “No, this isn’t right!” He shouts, but his voice only echoes back at him.

He knows he’s stuck. He’s trapped in his own head, replaying his failures and doubts. The key to escaping this cycle is to stop fighting against it and do the opposite of what he expects. Instead of trying to beat the loop, he stops.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting go of the tension, letting the loop pass through him. When he opens his eyes again, the path is clear. The time loop has broken.

Ahead, the heart fragment glints in the distance, surrounded by a mass of pulsating thorns and jagged bones, like a twisted, grotesque cage. Michael feels a surge of fear—he knows these thorns represent the things that have hurt him most, the barriers he’s built around himself to keep others out.

He looks down at the bone-like structures, jagged and sharp, and for a moment, doubts creep back in. “Can I make it? Will I survive this?”

But then, he remembers the words of Nohr, the purpose of this journey—to find the missing piece within himself.

Without thinking any longer, he jumps.

The thorns lash at him, scraping his skin, but he pushes through. The bones crack as he crashes into them, his body bruised but resolute. He lands in front of the heart fragment, which now pulses with life.

He reaches out, gripping the 8-bit heart with both hands, feeling a strange warmth as he does. The moment he touches it, the surrounding thorns and bones dissolve, leaving only the heart fragment in his hands.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Michael breathes freely. He has faced the obstacles, the doubts, the fears—and he’s come out stronger on the other side.

Michael breathes deeply, clutching the heart fragment in his hands. For a moment, everything around him fades away, the sharp thorns and jagged bones dissolving into a soft, gentle light. A chime rings through the air—clear, melodic, and eerily familiar. It’s the sound of a chime from one of his favorite video games, a melody he hasn’t heard in years, but one that immediately brings a sense of calm and recognition.

He lifts the heart fragment above his head, the moment feeling significant, like he’s conquered more than just the physical obstacles. The sound of the chime echoes again, this time filling him with a quiet satisfaction. The fragment hums softly in his hands as if it’s alive, vibrating with purpose.

For a brief second, Michael holds the fragment up in the light, the 8-bit heart glowing with soft hues. Then, without hesitation, he slips it into his apron pocket, feeling the weight of it press against him, both physically and emotionally.

With a final glance at the empty space around him, Michael begins his journey back to Nohr, the soft chime still lingering in his mind as he walks away from the labyrinth of thorns and bones, ready to face whatever awaits him next.

He kneels down and, without missing a beat, gently places the key in Nohr’s mouth. The door creaks open, revealing the next stage of his journey.

Meanwhile back in the tavern.  Bacchus, clearly inebriated, stumbles into Dokkaebi with a wide grin on his face.

“Oh, my tall, strapping lad!” Bacchus slurs, his breath heavy with wine. “Why don't you get me a drink of you?” He hiccups loudly. He then proclaims to the bar drunkenly “Let’s party like it’s Saturnalia!!”

Without waiting for a response, Bacchus grabs a large wine bottle from a nearby table, tilting it back and chugging down several gulps as he grabs Dokkaebi's butt.

A few spirits near the counter, clearly entertained by the spectacle, start chanting in unison, “Chug, chug, chug!”

Päivätär , who had been trying to maintain some semblance of focus, stares at Bacchus in disbelief before shaking their head with a sigh. “Well he's a fun one…”

But Bacchus, blissfully unaware, continues his noisy, wine-soaked dancing.

Ukko pushes himself up from his seat with a lazy stretch, clearly entertained. “I don’t know,” he drawls, a sly grin creeping onto his face. “He has a good idea. I can’t really complain."

Päivätär sighs deeply, her eyes landing on Nohr who winks at her.

Michael wanders around, lost, before he realizes something. “Well, as that saying goes, I’m not in Kansas anymore… or whatever.” He looks at the dusky, musty tall stone walls and wonders how many turns and twists he’s taken. He briefly considers trying to go back through the door he entered.

“Nohr! Where are you?! I’m lost in this creepy maze, and I can hear music playing in the background that I swear, if I could make out the actual words, it would be an earworm!” He yells up at nothing in particular, and to his surprise, a small voice chimes in from somewhere.

“Hey, not so loud! You’re very large!” The voice sounds oddly familiar. Michael scans his surroundings, looking up and down before his eyes land on what appears to be Nohr as a caterpillar. He snickers.

“You got turned into that? So, you need help?” Michael asks as he reaches down to pick Nohr up, gently placing them on his shoulder.

“I really don’t understand your brain—why this weird 80s reference and why I’m this shape and not something bigger and more human-like,” Nohr responds with an exasperated tone.

"Well, come on, we need to keep going or we’ll be stuck here forever!” Michael says as they continue walking in the direction they were originally heading.

Michael and Nohr continue walking, the dimly lit corridor stretching endlessly before them. A flicker of movement catches Michael’s eye—a set of ornate double doors embedded in the wall to their left. Unlike the rest of the environment, these doors seem… alive.

“I wonder if that’s the way we need to go?” Michael mutters, stepping cautiously toward them. His eyes scan the floor and walls, half-expecting hidden traps.

A crooked sign hangs between the doors, its ink smudged but still legible:

One of us always tells the truth, the other always lies.

Get the wrong answer, and you die.

Get the right answer, and you get a prize.

Michael exhales sharply. “Oh, come on. This riddle? As if no one’s ever heard of this before.”

At the sound of his voice, the doors’ carved faces jolt awake, their stone eyes narrowing.

“Oh, how rude!” they chime in unison.

“Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I’ll be the liar,” the left door huffs.

“No, no, I’m the liar,” the right door counters smugly.

Michael stares at them, blinking. “Wait… one of you is supposed to tell the truth, and the other is supposed to lie.”

The doors smirk in eerie synchronization. “Eeeeehh, says who?”

Before Michael can process that, the sign between them bursts into flames. Behind the burning parchment, another message is revealed, its jagged letters carved directly into the wall:

We know what you’re looking for.

We know how to hide it.

Can you solve the riddle in one try?

Michael swallows. One try. No retries, no second chances.

Michael reads the riddle, frustration growing. “What do I truly hold?” he repeats, glancing between the two doors. His mind races through possibilities—hope? Strength? Determination? None feel quite right.

Taking a breath, he finally says, “Fear.”

The moment the word leaves his lips, a deep, static-filled laugh echoes through the space. The walls tremble, and from the flickering shadows, Nega Michael steps forward—a perfect copy of himself, but darker, sharper. His eyes glint with mischief, his smirk is knowing.

“You think that’s the answer?” Nega Michael taunts. “You don’t even know yourself, do you?”

Michael braces himself for a fight, but instead of attacking, Nega Michael just stands there, arms crossed, waiting.

And that’s when it clicks.

Michael stares at his counterpart—the part of himself he’s always tried to reject. The doubts, the insecurities, the thoughts he refuses to voice. He’s been fighting them all this time, but maybe that’s not what he needs to do.

“You’re me,” Michael says slowly, lowering his guard. “And I’m you.”

Nega Michael raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t have to destroy you, do I? I just have to accept you.”

A silence stretches between them. Then, Nega Michael grins.

“Finally.”

The two exchange a look—one that only they could understand. Then, Michael does something unexpected.

“You know, I bet you have great taste in music.”

Nega Michael chuckles. “You already know the answer to that.”

The doors behind them shake violently before falling over with a dramatic crash, revealing the glowing heart piece behind them. The moment Michael steps forward and picks it up, Nega Michael dissolves into light, his presence now a part of him rather than an enemy to fight.

“I think I recall from my memories, the passage is through the wall, but it’s hidden. You don’t see it at first glance, but it’s there—an optical illusion. I hope we haven’t already passed it.”

Michael looks around frantically, causing Nohr to fall off his shoulder and tumble into the pocket of the apron.

“Hey, calm down! You made me fall!” Nohr yells, muffled from inside the apron pocket.

“Oh, sorry, Nohr. I forgot you were on my shoulder. Can’t you change into a different creature with some powers or something?” Michael asks.

“I’ve tried, but your brain has locked me out of my powers, weirdly enough,” Nohr replies.

Just then, Michael hears the sound of air moving slowly next to a wall. He walks over, sensing something but can’t quite place it.

“Curiouser and curiouser… I wonder if this wall isn’t a wall at all,” Michael says softly as he walks closer. Before he realizes it, they’re no longer in the maze but now in a dimly lit metal hallway with flashing red lights.

“Whoa, where the fu—” Michael says, trailing off as he recognizes the scene all too well. He reaches down to pat his pocket, but feels nothing.

“Nohr! Where the hell did you get off to?!” Michael spins around, his foot hitting a small kennel. Inside the glass enclosure, a grey cat meows at him. Nohr has somehow transformed into a chubby grey cat, looking up at Michael from inside.

"This isn’t an ’80s reference anymore,” Michael mutters, his voice shaky. “This one’s from the ’70s… and it’s terrifying.”

He locks the kennel with shaking hands, only to hear the faint sound of hissing followed by the unmistakable clanking of something distant, moving toward them.

“Oh, fuck, gotta blast!!” Michael yells, his voice breaking as he bolts away from the sound of a screeching, snarling thing clambering after him.

“Not like this, not like this!! Fuck, fuck, fuck!!” Michael screams, heart pounding as he turns down corridors, unsure of where he’s going but desperate to put as much distance between himself and whatever’s chasing him.

Michael spots a white light up ahead, thinking it as the escape pod. He stumbles faster toward it, adrenaline surging. In his rush, he accidentally drops the kennel. He pauses, heart racing, to grab it back up. The screeching is much closer now, and the clanking is deafening.

Spinning around, he screams in horror as he sees the creature chasing him: Nohr, still in the kennel, hissing at the massive, onyx-colored beast closing in.

Without thinking, Michael grabs the kennel and sprints, the creature’s claws swiping through the air behind him. He crosses the threshold, praying to reach the escape pod—only to stop short as he realizes they’ve ended up in a new corridor, the walls lined with eerie, staring statues.

“What the—?” Michael gasps, breathless. “Where the hell…?”

He turns around and freezes. The doorway he came through is gone, replaced by a massive, locked gate.

I… wait… Nohr?! Where’s the kennel?! This is getting really tiring trying to guess what or where he’s going to be,” Michael mutters, walking past the statues, his frustration mounting. “I think I recall this… Something about being worthy or brave, or… you get lasered to death?!”

He shakes his head and steps cautiously between the towering figures, breathing shakily, unsure of what comes next. As if by sheer luck, he makes it through without any issues and moves onward, stepping into what appears to be a dark forest.

Meanwhile, back in the Heart Sanctum, the air is thick with tension. Michael’s body jerks and convulses on the couch, muscles straining under the invisible force gripping him. Nohr sits nearby, unnervingly still, their hands clutching the arms of their chair so tightly their knuckles turn white. Their eyes remain closed, but the rigidness in their posture speaks volumes, tension radiating from them as they watch Michael’s body with intense focus.

The flickering candles cast erratic shadows across the room, until one by one, they snuff out, throwing the space into darkness.

A voice—low, serpentine, and cruel—echoes through the blackened air. “Oh, I see what you’re doing, old one. But I won’t let you rid of me that easily…”

The voice breaks off as Nohr stands abruptly, their violet eyes glowing with a piercing intensity. They turn towards the source of the disturbance, fury radiating off them.

“You!” Nohr’s voice crashes through the silence, loud and raw. “Get out of this Michael! You’ve drained him enough!”

A cackling, mocking voice responds, dripping with confidence. “I’ll let him go for now, but I still have my hooks in him.”

The candles flicker back to life one by one, and with it, the shadow’s grip loosens. Michael’s body shudders on the couch, soft moans escaping him as tears streak down his face. His eyes remain shut, caught in a battle far beyond his control.

Nohr kneels by his side, their hand resting gently on his chest. Their touch is warm, grounding, but their expression hardens as they feel his frantic heartbeat beneath their palm. “Shhh, young one,” Nohr murmurs, their voice soothing, yet their eyes betray a flicker of concern. “You’re safe now.”

Inside Michael’s mind, he’s running—no, stumbling—through a dense, dark forest, his heart pounding in his chest. The air around him is thick, suffocating, and his breath comes in short, panicked gasps.

“NOHR! Where are you?!” he calls out, fear creeping into his voice.

All he hears in response is distant, sinister laughter—cold, mocking. “You can’t escape. We’re still here, and we’re not done.”

Michael’s feet trip over a root, and as he falls forward, the ground beneath him gives way, plunging him into darkness.

His stomach drops, and the world around him blurs, memories flashing before his eyes in a dizzying rush—his father’s funeral.

A somber ceremony—his father’s flag-draped casket surrounded by unfamiliar faces. A stern voice rings out. “Here we lay to rest this brave soldier.” The man in an ornate uniform stands, gazing over the casket with a mixture of reverence and cold accusation. He turns his gaze to Michael. “He gave his life to save his squad,” the man continues. “And you—”

Michael stumbles backward, breath catching. “What? No! My father didn’t die that way! He went down in a routine training from a malfunction!”

The man’s eyes flare, glowing unnaturally, the image of the man warping and shifting before him.

“NO!” Michael screams, desperation taking hold.

Suddenly, he’s thrust into the cockpit of a fighter jet as it's riddled with holes and sparks are flying from controls and he sees smoke forming beneath his seat and feet. The alarms blare around him.

“Warning, warning, warning—missile lock, missile lock!” the automated system blares.

Panic floods his veins. He scrambles, hands trembling, pressing the eject button—but it doesn’t work. His fingers slip, the button unresponsive.

“Come on, come on!” Michael shouts, his panic mounting as he bangs his fists against the control panel, but the missile lock continues.

And then—

The world freezes.

An instant. Silence. Stillness.

And then, with a violent jolt, Michael is awake, gasping for air. His body jerks upright, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding his veins. His scream shatters the calm, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him. His mind struggles to make sense of what just happened.

“What… What happened? What the hell was that?!” he exclaims, voice raw, disoriented.

Nohr is beside him, their gaze unreadable, but their violet eyes hold an unspoken understanding. The room is still now, save for the gentle flicker of the remaining candlelight.

“Easy, sweet one,” Nohr says gently, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. “You’re safe. The vision is over. You’re back with me.”

Michael’s body shakes as he struggles to ground himself in the present. “I… I thought I was going to die. What was that? What just happened?” he breathes, still lost in the shadow of his mind.

Nohr’s voice softens, but the gravity in their words is undeniable. “We’ve pieced together what we can, but whatever attached itself to you—it isn’t finished. You’re partly free.”

Nohr rises and pours a deep red tea into a cup, the liquid shimmering slightly in the dim light. They hand it to Michael. “Here. This might help.”

Michael hesitates before taking the cup. The warmth radiates through his hands. He lifts it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The aroma is unfamiliar, but soothing. “Peppermint… and cinnamon?” he says, his voice hesitant.

Nohr nods. “Those are the notes. But the ingredients are from places beyond your world.”

Michael takes a cautious sip. The liquid burns slightly, but it’s not unpleasant.

Nohr’s violet eyes hold his gaze.

Chapter 7: Threshold^[c][d]

Stamp… stamp… stamp… The rhythmic sound of papers being stamped and the clattering of keyboards fills the sterile, lifeless air of Jeoseung Saja’s cubicle. His bored gaze drifts from one paper to the next, each new client case seeming more repetitive than the last.

A young soldier stands in front of his desk, sobbing. The soldier’s face is streaked with tears as he pleads, “I was just doing my job! Why am I being sent to this place?”

Jeoseung Saja sighs deeply, mechanically responding, “Yes, yes, you died. You lived a life full of mistakes. You’ll be sent to a place where you can be… re-educated. We’ve been over this before.” He stamps the soldier’s paperwork without looking up, bored by the whole process.

“Why?” The soldier gasps, his voice desperate.

Jeoseung Saja doesn’t even flinch as he answers, his tone distant, “Because that’s how it works. It’s not personal.”

But then, as he processes the next form, a small flicker of something catches his eye on the screen. A file on Michael, a name he’s dealt with before—seems to have a clerical error.

The file reads: Michael, status: ERROR. Jeoseung Saja blinks at the screen, confused. The data doesn’t make sense. He quickly reviews the notes, and the information rattles him. Michael’s “character sheet” was marked with odd discrepancies.

He reads it over again: Rebirth case—status unknown. Error marked on the file in big red block letters.

Upon further looks the file is marked as incomplete and contains no other relevant details. Why would Michael’s case be flagged with such an issue? Something isn’t right. Was Michael truly supposed to be in the afterlife realm? What's going on?

Jeoseung Saja’s brow furrows in frustration. This isn’t just a small administrative mistake. This feels like something that needs immediate attention. He wonders if Michael wasn’t supposed to be here yet, there could be consequences—things could spiral out of control.

Jeoseung Saja leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He doesn’t like this, not one bit. He could easily ignore it, pass it off as another glitch in the system, but something about Michael’s case gnaws at him. He’s not going to let it slide.

With a resigned sigh, he stamps the soldier’s paperwork one last time. “You’ll be fine,” Jeoseung Saja mutters, not really caring.

Jeoseung Saja barely has time to stand when the air shifts. The steady hum of the office seems to dim, the usual rustle of paper and clicking of keyboards fading into a suffocating stillness. The scent of old wood and damp earth lingers in the air, something ancient creeping into the sterile bureaucracy.

Then, the sound—slow, deliberate footsteps, each one landing with an unnerving precision. A presence looms behind him, not hurried, not hesitant—just inevitable.

“You look troubled, Jeoseung,” a voice murmurs, smooth yet eerily hollow, like the whisper of wind through an abandoned cemetery.

Jeoseung doesn’t bother turning around. He knows that voice. Knows that cadence, the quiet, self-satisfied amusement woven beneath every syllable.

“Ankou,” he sighs, rubbing his temples before finally glancing over his shoulder.

Ankou stands just behind him, perfectly still, their presence like a black mark on reality itself. Their suit—immaculately tailored, though the color is hard to pin down, shifting between the deepest navy and a shade darker than black. The lines are crisp, the fabric pristine, but something about it feels off, as if it were made of something less tangible than cloth. Their skin is pale, just shy of sickly, the kind that never sees sunlight. Their hair is neatly combed, their features sharp but nondescript in a way that makes them seem too perfect, as if sculpted by someone with an obsession for symmetry.

But it’s the eyes that are most unsettling. Dark, hollow pools, reflecting nothing, betraying nothing.

Ankou tilts their head just slightly, like a predator indulging a lesser creature with attention. “What’s the matter?” they ask, their tone feigning concern, though the smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth betrays their amusement. “The weight of bureaucracy wearing you down?”

Jeoseung exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “I was about to leave. You going to waste my time, or do you actually have a reason for being here?”

Ankou’s smile widens, but it never quite reaches their eyes. They step closer, moving with an uncanny smoothness, like something that understands human motion but doesn’t quite replicate it correctly.

“I heard about a little… clerical issue.” Their gaze flicks to Jeoseung’s desk, where Michael’s file still lingers on the screen. Their fingers twitch ever so slightly, as if itching to reach out, to pry. “A mistake in the system, is it?”

Jeoseung tenses. “It’s nothing.”

Ankou hums, the sound more amused than convinced. “Oh, Jeoseung. You and I both know nothing is ever just ‘nothing’ in this place.”

They adjust their cuffs, the motion precise, practiced. “Let me guess. A soul that shouldn’t be here? A misfiled fate? A little oversight in our ever-so-perfect system?” They pause, studying Jeoseung as if savoring his reaction. “Or maybe… something bigger?”

Jeoseung’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t like where this is going.

Ankou takes another step forward, their presence suffocating despite their polite, businessman-like demeanor. “You know,” they say, voice almost playful, “I’ve never been fond of your department’s reeducation methods. Too soft. Too… forgiving.” They tilt their head, their grin razor-sharp. “Sometimes, I wonder if things would run smoother if we handled matters differently. You know, a little less reform… a little more finality.”

Jeoseung scoffs. “Ah, yes. The old ‘souls deserve suffering’ approach. You still clinging to that?” He crosses his arms. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? That whole eternal torment thing? It was made up by some mortal.” He waves a hand dismissively. “What’s his name? Dante? Inferno? It was a comedy, Ankou. Read between the lines.”

Ankou chuckles, slow and measured. “Maybe.” Their voice drops to a whisper, smooth as silk. “Or maybe… he simply saw the truth before the rest of you did.”

A beat of silence stretches between them, heavy and unspoken.

Then, as quickly as they appeared, Ankou straightens their cuffs again, their demeanor shifting back to something composed, professional. “Well,” they say smoothly, stepping back. “I won’t keep you, then. Just thought I’d stop by, check in on my dear colleague.” They smile, but it’s all teeth, no warmth. “You know how much I love to keep things… organized.”

Jeoseung watches them carefully. “Uh-huh.”

Ankou inclines their head slightly before turning, walking away with the same unnerving grace, their footsteps fading into the murmur of the office.

Jeoseung exhales only when they’re gone. He looks back at Michael’s file on the screen, the error message flashing like a warning.

Yeah. Something wasn’t right.

And now, he wasn’t the only one looking into it.

Jeoseung Saja grabs his coat, ready to leave, but just as he stands, a mountainous stack of paperwork materializes in the To Be Processed bin on his desk. The sheer weight of it seems to press the air down around him.

He stares at the endless forms, then exhales through his nose, slowly setting his coat back on the hook. His chair creaks as he sinks back into it.

“It’s going to be a long eon before I can get back to fieldwork at this rate,” he mutters, voice empty of emotion. With a resigned flick of his wrist, he pulls the first sheet from the stack and snaps his fingers, conjuring a soul into the office.

A shimmering light coalesces in front of him, taking shape into the ghostly form of a middle-aged woman. Confused and defensive, her gaze darts around the office before settling on him.

Jeoseung Saja doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He reads from the page in front of him. “It says here you were a mother of two. Against the choices your son wa—”

“You mean my daughter!” the woman shrieks, cutting him off.

Jeoseung Saja’s expression remains unchanged. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t sigh. He simply lifts his gaze, dark eyes like twin voids.

“Son,” he corrects, his voice flat. “Wanted to be recognized as they truly are.”

The woman recoils as if struck. Jeoseung Saja barely notices. His attention has already shifted to the rest of her file. It’s thick—detailing years of cruelty, petty and grand alike. Ostracizing family. Making neighbors’ lives miserable. Spreading hate with a righteousness she never questioned.

He drums his fingers once on the desk before picking up his stamp. Reeducation recommended. His mind runs the numbers. A case like this needs something firm. Something long enough to crack deep-seated beliefs but not long enough to break the soul beyond repair.

He flips the file shut and presses the stamp down with a finality that echoes in the space between them.

“444 years should do,” he decides, indifferent to the woman’s sputtering protests. He waves a hand, and she vanishes in a wisp of ethereal mist, off to begin her long journey of unlearning.

Jeoseung Saja picks up the next file without pause, conjuring the next soul from the ether. A shimmering light forms before him, materializing into the figure of a portly man with a regal air about him, but the arrogance that surrounds him is palpable.

“King James,” Jeoseung Saja mutters, his eyes scanning the file, “says you were a tyrant, murdered many of your wives, and rewrote the Bible to suit your whims.”

The man stands tall, puffing out his chest, clearly proud of his achievements—at least in his own mind.

Before Jeoseung Saja can proceed further, a voice interrupts. “Oh, you read my fanfiction?” A young man with a crown of thorns, wearing a modest outfit and carrying a pile of letters, strolls by, looking at the file with interest. “That’s awesome, man! You wrote your own version? High five!”

He extends his hand toward King James, who blinks, momentarily confused.

Jesus Christ, the mail boy, flashes a broad grin, completely oblivious to the tension. King James reluctantly slaps his hand with a bewildered frown, unsure of how to respond.

Jeoseung Saja rolls his eyes, his head already aching. “Focus, King James,” he says dryly, his fingers tapping the file impatiently. “You’re not here for high fives. You’re here for reeducation.”

Jesus winks at Jeoseung Saja as he walks away, giving him a casual, carefree nod. He pulls a doobie from his pocket, waggling it playfully at Jeoseung as he continues his delivery rounds, whistling some tune off-key.

Jeoseung Saja just shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “What a mess.”

He quickly grabs another form without a thought. Another soul materializes in front of him, a frail, elderly man who looks around, confused.

“Mr. Trusk… you liked to…” Jeoseung Saja mutters to himself as he scans the papers. His voice trails off, his eyes flicking from the file to the man before him. The details on the paper are unsavory, to say the least. “Well, this one’s interesting.”

He glances at the man, and for a moment, the air seems to grow heavier, almost oppressive, as if the weight of the man’s past actions is bearing down on the office itself.

But then, with a dismissive sigh, Jeoseung Saja stamps the paper, preparing to move on to the next. His mind is already distant, focused on the next case.

Meanwhile, outside the heart sanctum, Michael and masculine Nohr are walking out when they spot a chaotic scene unfolding.

“What the?” Michael stares at Päivätär and feminine Nohr in what appears to be a chugging ale contest. Spirits, legends, myths, gods, and creatures on each side cheer their chosen competitors on.

Nohr shakes their head, laughing. “Oh, my other self loves to do this. Proving we can’t be stopped.” They gesture to a clearly passed-out Ukko and Dokkaebi next to empty barrels of mead. “Looks like they’ve been at it for a while.”

Michael looks around, trying to understand what’s happening. “Well, what do we do now?”

Nohr smiles. “We can probably get those two off the ground and onto some comfortable benches.” They point at a booth a few feet away.

Michael frowns, looking over the unconscious bodies of Ukko and Dokkaebi. “I don’t think I have the strength to pick either of them up. You have an industrial crane or something?”

Nohr snaps their fingers. The unconscious bodies of Ukko and Dokkaebi float effortlessly to the booth benches.

“No need. I learned to do this eons ago.” Nohr shrugs, their tone playful. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve had to move drink-passed-out gods who wanted to challenge others. Reminds me of some devil challenging a mortal for a golden stein.”

Michael raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “A drinking contest?”

Nohr nods, a smirk pulling at the corners of their mouth. “A drinking contest. And the devil didn’t exactly come out on top. Lost the stein, and his pride in the process.”

Michael chuckles. “That sounds like a story I’d like to hear.”

Faintly, in the distance, a voice grumbles. “Hey, not cool! He cheated!”

The sound of laughter erupts from a group of spirits nearby. One of them, large and imposing, grumbles again. “That was totally rigged!”

Another spirit, clearly more carefree, adds with a laugh. “You’re the one who challenged a Southern boy to a drinking game! Should’ve tried the musical abilities to get that soul!”

The spirits around them all burst into laughter, clearly enjoying the memory of the devil’s defeat.

Chapter 8: Schism

“Ooooof… what happened? Did we win?” Dokkaebi groans, slowly lifting their head as they look around, still dazed from the aftermath of the contest. Ukko, lying on their side, grumbles without moving.

“Oh, you boys can’t hold your drink to us ‘women’ gods,” Päivätär laughs, her voice full of playful mockery as she walks past them, heading back to her table where Michael is sitting. He’s absorbed in his character sheet, casually reading it with a thoughtful expression.

Dokkaebi and Ukko share a glance, then look back at the empty barrels and the chaos around them, the aftermath of their failed contest lingering in the air.

Päivätär slides into her seat with a smug grin. “Better luck next time, boys.”

Michael looks up from his character sheet, raising an eyebrow.

Nohr, leaning casually against the bar nearby, watches the scene with a grin. “You should’ve seen the devil’s face when he lost a golden stein over that challenge. The pride didn’t recover for centuries.”

A faint voice, almost drowned by the laughter and chatter, whispers from somewhere in the shadows: “Not cool!!”

Feminine Nohr and masculine Nohr laugh before touching hands and forming back into one Nohr. “Oooh, much better,” Nohr says, a satisfied grin crossing their face. “Now I can process all that drink easier.”

With that, they let out a large burp that shakes the tavern, sending a few nearby mugs and plates rattling.

Ukko jumps up, looking around startled, his eyes wide. “Eh, wha— Turmion Taistelut?!” he exclaims, as if he’s just realized the world is about to end.

Päivätär glances at him over her shoulder, still chuckling. “Relax, Ukko, we’re not quite there yet. But if you keep drinking like that, we might just get a taste of it.”

Dokkaebi sits up slowly, rubbing their head, looking as though they’re still piecing things together. “Wait… did someone just say end of the world? That’s a bit dramatic, even for us.”

Nohr grins devilishly. “Trust me, in some mythologies, that’s a very real thing. In Finland, though… it’s more about a really bad hangover after too many rounds.”

Michael looks up from his character sheet with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know, but I’d say the way you’re burping, maybe we’re already in the middle of it.”

Ukko, still looking concerned, stumbles back to his seat, muttering, “I just wanted to see if I could still outdrink a god…”

"Yeah, well, maybe you’re just like me—an all-powerful, immortal spirit, but not quite a god.” Dokkaebi jokes, slapping Ukko on the back as they take their seat.

Ukko, still rubbing his head, chuckles weakly. “Hey, I can handle my drink, but it seems the gods and spirits like to play a different game.”

Michael looks at his companions, a pensive expression on his face. “So, I guess we need to venture into my late teen memories? Not really looking forward to it, but after what Nohr and I did… I’m a bit more comfortable with it now.”

Päivätär glances over, a wry smile on her lips. “Well, unfortunately, we’ll have to do it without Jeoseung Saja. They left to finish some work back at their office.”

Dokkaebi nearly spits out their drink. “It’s been THREE DAYS! Shouldn’t he be back by now?!”

Michael blinks, his eyebrows furrowed. “Wait… three days?!”

Just then, Nohr, walking over from the bar with a tray of food, casually sets it down on the table. “Yes, it may have only felt like mere hours, but that’s what happens in your subconscious self. Time shifts drastically differently here. That’s why this mess”—Nohr waves a hand at the aftermath of the drinking contest—“happened.”

Dokkaebi gives a half-hearted shrug, then snatches a piece of bread from the tray. “Well, if that’s how it works, I guess I’ll just take my time recovering…”

Ukko grabs his hammerphone, tapping it a few times before swiping the screen. A flash of light envelops Michael, and in an instant, he’s pulled into his late teen memories.

“Man, what can I say? Up, up, and away?” Michael says with a grin, feeling the rush of nostalgia as his surroundings shift.

Dokkaebi raises an eyebrow. “What is it with you and pop culture references?”

“I am an elder millennial.” Michael shrugs, the joke clearly lost on Dokkaebi.

He looks around, finding himself in a familiar scene. He’s halfway in the engine bay of a rusty 1968 fastback Mustang, a car he loved despite its dilapidated condition. He can hear the sound of his teenage self grumbling from under the hood, banging a wrench against a stubborn bolt that won’t come loose.

Teen Michael, sweaty and frustrated, is yelling at the car. “C’mon, you piece of junk! Get off, you stupid bolt!” He bangs the wrench again, growing more impatient by the second.

Michael watches the scene with a mix of affection and regret. “Yeah, I loved that car, even if it was in bad shape. Loved working on it to make it run and sound good. I had planned to get some bodywork done and repaint it, but that never happened.” His voice dips into sadness as the memory plays out.

Suddenly, a group of teens in a shiny, new European sports car pulls up next to the Mustang. They slow down, and one of them rolls down the window, tossing fast food wrappers and trash at Michael’s car before speeding off, laughing and shouting insults.

Teen Michael seethes, his face red with anger, but he doesn’t chase them. Instead, he grits his teeth, clenching his fists.

“Ah, kids like that. Always looking to tear you down because they think they’re better,” Michael mutters under his breath, still watching the scene unfold, unable to intervene in the memory.

Ukko raises an eyebrow, his voice polite but knowing the answer probably isn’t good. “What happened to the car?”

Michael sighs, looking down at the memory, the weight of it still lingering in his chest. “Well, it got stolen and wrecked. A few months after I had some engine modifications done and put in a new sound system. I should’ve just invested in an alarm or security system, but they were so expensive back then. And honestly, they weren’t as cool as a loud engine or a killer sound system.”

He chuckles, though it’s hollow, a little sad.

Päivätär gives a sympathetic nod. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Michael shrugs, still staring at the memory of the wrecked car. “It happens. A lot of us have stories like that, I guess. In the end, it’s just a car. And I’ve got other ways to make noise these days.” He grins a bit, shaking off the melancholy.

Michael, it is with great honor to give you your diploma and this award as well for excellence in honors classes,” the faculty member announces loudly into the microphone, their voice booming across the auditorium.

But then, the faculty member lowers their voice just enough to make sure it’s hopefully unheard by the crowd. Unfortunately, it’s not.

“You could have done better and gotten AP if you did what we agreed on, you stupid kid,” the teacher whispers, looking at Michael but thinking the microphone’s off.

Michael flinches, the words stinging even though he’s heard them before. He stands frozen for a moment, then forces a smile as he walks forward to accept the diploma, trying to shake off the echo of the remark. The weight of the memory hangs in the air, thick with judgment, as he glances back toward his friends and family.

"What a prick!” Dokkaebi says.

Michael just shrugs. “He was right, though. I did the minimum to get that and nothing more. Oh man, college was worse.”

Dokkaebi raises an eyebrow. “Worse? How could it get worse than that?”

Michael exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, let’s just say the expectations only ramped up, and I still didn’t take things seriously. I just coasted through, always one step behind my potential.”

“Sounds like you were living in your own way,” Nohr comments, setting down a drink. “Sometimes that’s the best we can do until we figure it out.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Michael mutters, watching his younger self stand there, unaware of the missed opportunities ahead.

The scene shifts.

Michael sees himself in his dorm room—headphones on, lost in music—when the door swings open. A group of students stand there, sneering.

“What’s with all the black, man?” one jeers.

“Yeah, what are you? Some goth vampire?” another snickers.

“Loser,” someone mutters, tossing a balled-up wrapper at him.

Then, one of them smirks. “Just don’t shoot up the school or anything, alright?” He forms finger guns and mocks a recoil. The others laugh.

Michael watches the memory with a blank expression, his arms crossed tightly. “Yeah, well, people love to pick on someone who doesn’t fit their mold. I was just some quiet kid who liked my music and my space. That was enough to make me a target.”

Dokkaebi scoffs. “And they had the nerve to act like they were the mature ones?”

Michael chuckles dryly. “Pretty much. The irony wasn’t lost on me, even back then.”

Nohr watches, their gaze fixed on past-Michael, who keeps his head down. “You didn’t fight back?”

Michael shakes his head. “No point. I knew they weren’t worth the energy. I just focused on getting through it.” He exhales. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t stick with me.”

“It wasn’t long after that I started drinking heavily and doing drugs to keep the pain away. I guess I was self-medicating.”

Michael watches as the scene shifts, revealing his younger self slouched in a dark alley, a cigarette in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. His expression is hollow, lost.

“I dropped out of college and failed the expectations of my parents—and the rest of my family,” he continues. “After that, they all stopped talking to me. Said they had no son.”

“Whoa?!” Päivätär exclaims, turning sharply to Dokkaebi. “Where were you to look after him!?”

Dokkaebi simply shrugs. “Look, I protect the innocent and the good ones… and the ones who decide to be less so—” they gesture toward the scene unfolding before them, “—I kind of just ignore them. I’ve got plenty of other mortals to watch over. It’s not like he was the only one.”

“Hey, guys… can I be alone for a minute in my memories?” Michael asks, his voice quiet, a shimmer of tears in his eyes.

One by one, the gods silently vanish, leaving him alone with the echoes of his past.

Michael watches his younger self for a while longer, a storm of emotions swirling inside him. He wishes he could take it all back, rewrite the choices that led him here. But deep down, another thought lingers—there are memories ahead that he can’t recall, and that uncertainty unsettles him more than anything.

Michael watches his younger self stumble to his feet, drink in hand, as he moves further into the dark alley. “Hmm, I don’t remember this,” he mutters, squinting as he observes the scene.

In the distance, a strange swirling light flickers in the window of a dilapidated building, half-hidden behind boarded-up windows.

“Where is this? What part of town is this? This doesn’t feel familiar,” Michael murmurs, his eyes narrowing as he watches.

Suddenly, he sees his younger self trip and fall, the drink spilling onto the ground. Before Michael can react, black arms reach out from the shadows, dragging his past self through the wall.

“What the fuck?!” Michael exclaims, his voice barely above a whisper.

Michael tries to rush toward the building, desperate to see what’s happening, but as he steps forward, he slams into some sort of invisible barrier, a wall he can’t see but feels sharply.

“What gives?!” he growls, banging his hands against the air, frustration growing as he tries to push through.

As Michael continues banging on the invisible barrier, growing more frantic, he calls out, “Guys! Hey, get me out of here! I need help!!”

But just as his frustration peaks, the memory vision begins to fade, the world around him shifting. Suddenly, Michael finds himself back in the tavern, breathing heavily. His gaze snaps to Jeoseung Saja, who stands there, staring at him with an intensity that feels almost hostile.

“Who. Are. You?” Jeoseung Saja demands, his voice cold and harsh.

“What? I’m Michael,” Michael mutters, confused and still shaken from the vision.

Jeoseung Saja’s eyes narrow, and with a violent slam of his hand, he slams down a new set of papers in front of Michael. “Not according to these documents,” he spits. “What we have here are forgeries. You’re not who you say you are. You’re not dead. You were never even alive.”

“What are you talking about?! I’m me!” Michael shouts, his voice rising in frustration. “We saw my memories! We’ve seen my childhood! We just got to right after I dropped out of college!”

He looks around at the others for support, but the weight of Jeoseung Saja’s words hangs heavily in the air.

Päivätär steps forward, her voice soft but firm. “He’s right. We left him alone for a bit because he asked to be. After the college dropout memory, he wanted some time to himself.”

Jeoseung Saja narrows his eyes, unwavering. “These papers I just received from headquarters say otherwise. Ankou, another reaper, brought them to me. They know your case because it’s flagged in our system—full of errors.”

“Where did these sheets come from?” Ukko asks, his eyes still on the first set of papers they’d been looking at before the new ones were placed in front of them.

Jeoseung Saja’s gaze doesn’t waver as they answer, “They were already here. We were all called to be here. Why all four of us? I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t question it. It’s not my job to question it. My job is to finish the job. I can’t do that if I don’t know what the job is now, can I?” They tilt their head, showing the sharp glint of teeth as they speak.

Michael tries to back away, but before he can move, Jeoseung Saja flicks their hands, sending a flurry of papers with Hangeul symbols spiraling through the air. The papers wrap around Michael, binding him to the spot, holding him in place.

“No, you’re not going anywhere,” Jeoseung Saja says, their tone sharp and unyielding.

The others watch, silent, as Michael stands frozen, unable to move.

“Isn’t this a bit… overkill?” Dokkaebi asks, rising from their chair, their tone laced with skepticism.

Jeoseung Saja gives Dokkaebi a fierce, piercing look, tilting their head slightly. Without a word, the intensity of their gaze is enough to make Dokkaebi sit back down, silent.

“What’re you doing?!” Ukko roars, standing up with his eyes glowing bright.

“Keeping him from trying to escape,” Jeoseung Saja replies coolly, not even looking up.

Ukko, in a flash of rage, throws a bolt of lightning at Jeoseung Saja, only for it to vanish mid-flight, fizzling out into nothing.

“ENOUGH!!” Nohr yells from the tavern, their violet eyes glowing brighter than ever before. “He is a guest here. Let him go. No fighting in my tavern!” Nohr’s voice is stern, a clear warning to everyone present.

Jeoseung Saja scoffs. “Leave us be, Nohr. This is between whatever this is”—he gestures to Michael—“and us. We have reason to suspect he’s not human. Why would a soul come here for judgment?!”

The others exchange questioning glances, their eyes flicking between Michael and each other.

Nohr rises from the bar with a crackle of energy, their violet eyes glowing brighter as they float toward the table.

“He’s reported as neither dead nor alive. That’s not possible,” Jeoseung Saja continues, his voice heavy with skepticism. “Immortals are listed as such. It doesn’t add up.”

“Have you even looked into him?” Nohr asks, their voice cold yet curious, the energy crackling around them like a storm.

We are looking into him more,” Jeoseung Saja replies, his frustration mounting. “The memories of his past—that’s what the job was for this one.”

“No, not like that, Jeoseung Saja. I meant deeply.” Nohr’s tone softens as their eyes return to their normal violet hue.

“What do you mean?” Jeoseung Saja scoffs.

“I mean what we did in the Heart Sanctum.” Nohr’s voice takes on a serious edge, their gaze now locked on Michael, still bound by the Hangeul papers. “There’s something odd about him, and someone behind it. Someone dark and evil.”

Jeoseung Saja’s gaze flickers to Michael before he raises an eyebrow.

“Nohr, we can’t—”

“No,” Nohr interrupts, their voice unwavering, “Jeoseung, remove those papers off of him. Now.”

Jeoseung Saja snaps his fingers, and the papers vanish in a flash of flame. Michael gasps, feeling the weight lift from him.

“We need him to go back inside himself,” Nohr says, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “He found two pieces of six. He needs the others, but I fear they may not all be within him. The rest might be outside his body.”

“What two pieces?” Päivätär asks, glancing at Michael with a questioning look.

Nohr gently squeezes Michael’s shoulder, guiding him to explain. “Well, Michael, tell them exactly what it was you found.”

Michael stammers, looking down as if ashamed. “I… I found two pieces of my heart, I think? One was, like, an 8-bit looking heart, and the other… it kind of looked like a muppet piece? At least, I think it’s a piece of my heart. It was foam, only a small piece, and it was kind of hard to tell…”

"What do you mean, ‘outside his body’?” Jeoseung Saja asks, confusion lacing his tone.

Nohr’s gaze hardens, as if seeing through the walls of the tavern. “I mean that the darkness or evil might have taken some parts of him for its own purposes. We don’t know exactly how much, but I do know they let these two pieces go. They were trying to collect them even when we were at the Heart Sanctum.”

Nohr’s eyes shift to the hallways leading to the sanctum. “The next time we link, I’ll need at least one of you to guard the space while I, the complete me, link with Michael. I’ll need the help of another as well.”

Ukko steps forward with a firm nod. “I’ll watch over you. You can count on that.”

Päivätär looks at Michael, her gaze softening. “And I’ll join in the linking.”

"What am I, chopped sundae?” Dokkaebi grins, clearly enjoying the joke.

“Ugh, I bet he’s off to sulk in his office and cry to his colleagues. Waaaah waaah, I got bullied by Nohr the—wait, what are you?” Dokkaebi asks, raising an eyebrow.

Nohr, nonchalantly, says, “I am a cosmic being, as some would say.”

Chapter 9: Survive

Nohr leads Ukko, Päivätär, and Michael to the Heart Sanctum.

“Dokkaebi, would you be a dear and watch over my tavern? And please, help yourself to whatever you desire while we are away,” Nohr says with a cool tone.

“Oh, well don’t mind if I do, Nohr!” Dokkaebi replies, rubbing their hands together as they stroll behind the main bar.

“Do you think it’s wise to let him have free rein?” Päivätär asks, glancing back at Dokkaebi with a concerned look.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.” Nohr winks, then opens the door, leading them all into the Heart Sanctum.

“Michael, please take your place on the couch—just like before, if you will. Ukko, you may stand nearby or sit, your choice,” Nohr says, gesturing kindly toward the interior.

“Päivätär, we will link with Michael and take the chairs next to him.”

Ukko looks around, then grabs a chair and sits idly by, watching over the others. “So what exactly will you two be doing?”

“We’ll link and be inside Michael, helping him in any way we can,” Nohr explains, handing Päivätär a cup of a steaming concoction. “Our bodies will remain here—vulnerable to whoever or whatever may try their malignant deeds. That’s why we need you to watch over us.”

Päivätär takes the cup with a nod. Nohr continues, “Drink this—it’ll allow you to link.”

Michael, already lying down, closes his eyes and begins to drift inward. Nohr and Päivätär lean back into their chairs beside him, eyes shutting in sync as they link with Michael.

⸻

Michael blinks, looking around. “Okay… where the fuck did we end up now?!”

A vast desert stretches in every direction—blindingly bright and blistering hot.

“Well. This sucks.”

He looks down at himself and sees tightly-fitted black clothing with strange tubing coiled around parts of his body.

“Oh. Okay. This makes sense. Oh wait—no, I don’t like this!!”

He spins around, suddenly aware of the heat radiating from the sand underfoot, and how far the nearest rock formations are. As he begins to bolt toward them, the ground rumbles ominously beneath him.

“Oh shit—Frell! I don’t want to end up worm food!!”

The ground beneath him starts to pull backward, as if trying to drag him in reverse with every step. Michael runs harder, muscles burning, the rocky outcrop only a few hundred yards ahead—his only hope for safety.

“Oh, c’mon! I just need a few more seconds!!”

Behind him, the desert erupts—a massive plume of sand explodes into the air, showering Michael in grit. He stumbles, coughing, but doesn’t stop.

The air suddenly smells of cinnamon and strange spices, warm and sharp like incense on fire. His vision shimmers, warping at the edges, as if the heat itself is distorting reality.

He gasps, lungs aching, and pushes forward.

With one final lunge, he crashes onto solid ground—rough stone beneath his feet, safe for the moment from the hungry sand.

Michael turns just in time to see a massive worm sail over his head, its sleek body casting a long shadow over the rocks before it crashes back down into the sand on the other side. The impact shakes the ground and the rocky outcropping violently, sending Michael sprawling to the floor.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I was almost eaten!” he gasps, trying to catch his breath. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his heart pounding. “Man, whatever I breathed in… is making me feel weird.”

In the distance, a rhythmic thumping starts—low and heavy, echoing across the desert.

Michael squints toward the sound and catches a glint of light high in the sky, reflecting like a distant flare.

He stumbles to his feet, legs weak beneath him, and starts toward the shadowed entrance of a cave nestled in the rock. Each step feels heavier than the last.

He reaches the threshold, swaying.

Then collapses—falling into the dark, unconscious.

“What was that?!” Päivätär exclaims, eyes wide as the massive worm rockets from one side of the rocky outcropping to the other, its body burrowing deeper into the sand until it disappears beneath the dunes without a trace.

Nohr narrows their gaze in the direction the creature vanished. “Let’s head to those rocks. I bet we’ll find Michael.”

They adjust the controls, guiding the craft downward through the shimmering, dreamlike atmosphere toward the jagged rise of stone—toward where the mindscape pulses with tension and memory.

Minutes pass in silence.

Michael stirs, groaning softly as consciousness returns. His fingers twitch against the stone, then he slowly rolls onto his back, breath ragged.

Above him, two silhouettes come into focus—Nohr and Päivätär, watching him closely.

He squints up at them, eyes heavy, voice dry. “…Did anyone get the number of that worm?”

Nohr smirks, offering a hand. “Sorry, it burrowed off before we could exchange insurance info.”

Päivätär chuckles as she grabs his other arm. “You’re lucky it didn’t leave you a Yelp review: ‘Tasted like anxiety and bad decisions.’”

Together, they hoist Michael to his feet, steadying him as he wobbles.

“Ugh… I feel like I got sandblasted inside a spice rack,” Michael mutters.

Nohr brushes some grit off his shoulder. “Well, welcome to the Heart Sanctum—no refunds, no complaints department.”

The three peer deeper into the cave, their ears catching strange clicking and beeping echoing off the stone. Slowly, they begin to walk forward, drawn by the faint glow ahead.

As they move deeper, the rough rock walls begin to shift—now embedded with clusters of ancient-looking computers, screens flickering with dim light. The air hums with static, the occasional blip and buzz cutting through the quiet.

“What… is all this?” Päivätär asks, her voice hushed as her eyes scan the alien glow.

Nohr leans closer to one of the flickering monitors, eyes narrowing as the rapid binary stream begins to slow, then stabilize. The scrolling lines suddenly align into patterns—symbols, then letters, then words.

“It’s a riddle,” Nohr murmurs, tilting their head. “The code’s forming a message.”

Päivätär steps closer, curious. “What does it say?”

Nohr reads aloud, voice low and thoughtful:

“The heart piece is hard to find,

If you don’t know how to unwind.

What is easy, yet always tough—

When done too little, or too much?”

Michael groans, rubbing his temples. “Ugh, why does my brain feel like it’s trying to gaslight me with poetry?”

Päivätär gives a small smile. “Because your brain has taste.”

The riddle hangs in the air like static, echoing in their minds as the trio continues deeper into the cave. The faint lights of the monitors fade behind them, replaced by a growing luminescence ahead—a pale, pulsing glow that seems to breathe with the stone itself.

They step into a vast open chamber, and all three pause.

From the center of the room, thick tendrils of some organic, glowing substance writhe upward from the ground—slowly, almost sleepily, like they’re responding to the presence of the intruders. They pulse with a soft light, shifting in rhythm with something unseen… or perhaps felt.

The walls ripple faintly, as though the chamber itself is alive.

Michael stares, wide-eyed. “Okay. That’s either my brain… or someone left a Cthulhu heart monitor in here.”

Nohr narrows their gaze. “Tendrils. Growth from the center. Reactive light.” They glance at the others. “This has to be the source. The core.”

Päivätär looks up at the slow, curling vines of light. “The riddle said the heart piece is hard to find if you don’t understand the balance. Maybe… this is it. But it’s dormant. Or waiting.”

Michael frowns, crossing his arms. “Waiting for what?”

Nohr gives a slow, knowing look. “Maybe for you to answer the riddle.”

The tendrils writhe gently in the glow at the center of the chamber, moving like they’re breathing in sync with something unseen—alive, waiting.

Michael steps forward, frowning, the riddle echoing again in his mind.

“The heart piece is hard to find,

If you don’t know how to unwind.

What is easy, yet always tough—

When done too little, or too much?”

He mutters, “Balance… something that’s supposed to help, but can screw you up.”

As he speaks, the walls of the chamber begin to shimmer—like heat waves, or a scratched VHS tracking out of alignment.

The space shifts.

Päivätär gasps quietly as the stone around them melts into something new. Metal scaffolding juts from the walls. CRT monitors flicker into existence, stacked chaotically with rainbow static. Vines of red, veiny tubing pulse across the walls like nerves under skin. The ceiling hums with buzzing lights that blink in irregular rhythms—one flickering in morse-like bursts to the tune of Just Like Heaven.

They’ve entered something like an 80s basement filtered through a nightmare. The Underground of Michael’s soul.

A soft click echoes behind them. A vintage NES controller dangles from a broken shelf. A dusty Walkman lies atop a melted stack of cassette tapes, the label on one reading: “Side A: Escape”.

Nohr’s voice is low. “This is your headspace. You’ve been here before.”

Michael says nothing.

He walks slowly toward the center, where a glowing arcade cabinet stands alone—its screen warped, scrolling random sprites and colors. As he reaches out, the screen changes—showing flashes of his past:

        •        Young Michael, playing Metroid, blocking out yelling in the background.

        •        Teenage Michael at a party, laughing too loud, pupils dilated under blacklight posters.

        •        Older Michael, slumped on a couch, caught between nostalgia and numbness. A joint in one hand. A remote in the other.

The cabinet speaks in a robotic, glitched voice.

“What do you call it…

when escape becomes a cage?”

Michael stares, throat dry. “Coping.”

The tendrils around the room snap taut, then pull away from the walls with a wet, slithering sound. The static from the monitors cuts. The arcade cabinet powers down with a chime.

A low rumble shakes the floor.

Directly beneath the spot where the arcade stood, a trapdoor opens—hidden in the stone.

Below, a staircase spirals downward, glowing faintly red. At the bottom, something pulses with light.

The heart piece.

Nohr steps up beside Michael, voice soft. “You’re ready.”

Michael exhales shakily, then starts down the steps.

Michael blinks, the faint hum of the VHS-glitching heart still resonating in his chest. He turns slowly, scanning the flickering cave-room.

His eyes lock onto something tucked between two warped, half-melted video decks against the wall.

A dusty plastic case.

He stumbles toward it, brushing away cobwebs and magnetic tape ribbon draped across it like old streamers.

He squints.

“Is that… a Blockbuster tape case?”

He picks it up. It’s yellowed with age, cracked at the spine. A worn label peeks through the transparent front.

RETURN BY: 07/14/1994

There’s a smiley sticker halfway peeled off the corner, and written across the front in fading marker:

“MICHAEL – DO NOT ERASE”

He runs his fingers over the name.

“I haven’t seen one of these since…” His voice trails off.

Nohr steps up beside him, arms crossed, watching.

“Since you still believed stories had happy endings.”

Päivätär leans over his shoulder. “What’s on it?”

Michael opens the case. Inside, a single VHS tape. Unlabeled. Just a strip of masking tape with the same thing scrawled again:

“MICHAEL – DO NOT ERASE”

The moment his fingers touch it, a static wave pulses out. The cave lights flicker. One of the old TVs bursts into flickering life.

The screen flickers to life with a harsh buzz of static.

It shows a younger Michael—maybe eight years old—sitting cross-legged in the glow of an old boxy TV. His face is pale, eyes wide, completely glued to the screen.

Flickering shadows dance across his cheeks. The audio is warped but unmistakable: the shrill music, the screams, the low, growling static of a horror movie far too intense for someone his age.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

On the screen, a monster lunges from the shadows.

Young Michael flinches but keeps watching, frozen like prey.

Adult Michael stares, his jaw tight.

“Oh no,” he mutters, his voice hollow. “I know what this is.”

Nohr tilts their head, watching closely. “A trap?”

Michael shakes his head, throat dry.

“Worse. It’s a memory I buried.”

Päivätär watches the screen, her expression softening. “He’s so small…”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “And I watched that whole movie alone. My parents had no idea. I told them I had nightmares for a week. They said it was just my imagination.”

The screen flickers again, and the monster on the tape turns—not toward the child—but toward the camera, breaking the fourth wall with a slow, knowing grin.

The tape hisses louder.

Run!” Michael yells as the screen erupts in chaos. The bulbous head of the hissing monster surges forward, its face a mass of twisted features. With a long, bony tail, it lashes out, swiping at the image—and the image flickers into reality. The young Michael, wide-eyed and trapped in that long-buried memory, is dragged into the static, his terrified scream echoing as the horror invades the present.

The three jerk into motion. Michael, Nohr, and Päivätär spin around, racing up a creaking staircase. But as they reach the top, the familiar contours of the cave dissolve, replaced by a disorienting new world. Before them sprawls an outpost built of battered metal and broken glass—a makeshift stronghold on an alien landscape. The ground underfoot is strewn with scraps of futuristic detritus and the faint hum of machinery, echoing like a dying heartbeat.

Michael’s eyes dart around in disbelief. “If this is where I think we are, we are so fucked!” he yells, voice cracking with adrenaline and dread.

Nohr and Päivätär don’t waste a second. They haul Michael along as they dart down a narrow, dim corridor lined with flickering neon panels and rusted control boxes.

“No time to gaze around—we have to get away from whatever that thing is!” Nohr exclaims over the commotion, urgency lacing every word.

As they run, the corridor twists and groans under their weight, its metallic walls reflecting fleeting images of the chaos behind them. The sound of their footsteps mingles with the distant, hissing static of that monstrous presence—a reminder that the past, and the nightmares it spawned, are never far behind.

“We need to find the heart piece,” Michael pants, his breath hitching as the echoes of the creature’s hissing grow louder behind them, “but we’re being chased by that alien thing—and I really don’t want to find out if it can kill us here or not.”

Nohr mutters, “With our luck? Probably can.”

“What do you think it looks like? The heart piece?” Päivätär calls out, glancing over her shoulder as the corridor lights flicker ominously.

Michael skids to a halt at an intersection, chest heaving. He squints, piecing the memory together with a surge of dread and pop culture logic. Then, it clicks.

“One of two places,” he says grimly. “Either up there—” he jabs a finger toward a narrow hatch that leads to a ladder rising into darkness, “—in a large ship in orbit.”

He pauses.

“Or…” He gulps, turning slowly and pointing downward toward a tunnel lined with steam vents and dripping grime. “In a chamber with something meaner, uglier, and probably sitting right in the middle of a nest full of those things.”

Päivätär’s face pales. “Please tell me it’s Option A.”

Michael winces. “Oh, I hope it’s Option A.”

Nohr smirks. “Then let’s check orbit first—worst case, we find a space zombie instead.”

The creature roars in the distance, the sound of claws scraping metal echoing down the hall.

Michael groans, “We are so gonna die in VHS hell.”

The three scramble up the narrow ladder, metal groaning under their weight. At the top, the hatch bursts open to reveal a windswept landing platform bathed in harsh red light.

Sitting nearby like a sleeping beast is a drop ship—sleek, scarred, and humming faintly as if it’s waiting for something… or someone.

Nohr’s eyes widen. “Anyone know how to pilot that thing?” They glance meaningfully at Michael.

Michael throws up his hands. “Let’s hope we can get inside and hit auto-return? Is that a thing? Do vehicles do that? Can this one have that?”

Päivätär mutters, “If not, I hope you’re good at guessing buttons.”

Behind them, a fresh chorus of screams, hissing, and skittering claws echo through the platform’s vents. The ship is their only option.

The three bolt toward the drop ship, boots pounding against the metal deck.

“Faster!” Nohr yells as a blast of steam erupts behind them.

Michael slaps the control panel by the entry ramp. For a terrifying second, nothing happens. Then—psssshk!—the ramp hisses open.

“YES!” he cheers, practically leaping inside.

The ship’s interior is dim, lit with flickering panels and lined with dusty crash harnesses. Päivätär slams the ramp button behind them as Nohr dashes to the pilot’s seat.

Michael dives into the co-pilot chair, scanning the dashboard.

“Okay, okay… ‘Auto-return’… Where are you, my sweet little lazy space pilot miracle…”

The ship suddenly rumbles to life, lights blinking green.

“Did you do that?” Päivätär asks, wide-eyed.

Michael blinks. “I… touched nothing.”

Nohr grips the controls as the thrusters heat up.

“Looks like it wants to go somewhere. Everyone strapped in?”

From outside, something heavy slams against the ramp door with a sickening thud. A hiss. A screech. Then silence.

Michael swallows hard.

“Yup. Option A. Definitely the right call.”

The drop ship lurches as it docks with the orbiting vessel—an enormous, silent monolith drifting through the void. Everything about it feels wrong—too quiet, too old, like stepping into someone else’s nightmare.

Steam jets hiss as the ramp lowers. The trio steps cautiously onto the landing slab, the metal cold and slick beneath their boots, dim light from above casting their shadows long and distorted.

“Well,” Nohr mutters, scanning the gloom. “This doesn’t scream welcome, does it?”

“No,” Michael replies. “It screams bad DLC from a canceled horror game.”

They fan out, the eerie hum of life support systems the only sound. Rows of crates line the chamber—some shattered, some pulsing faintly.

Then, without warning, a massive shape drops from the rafters behind them. A monstrous hiss echoes through the bay.

Before anyone can react, a giant, sleek creature—towering, gleaming like oil in starlight—lashes out with blinding speed.

Its massive clawed limb snatches Päivätär, lifting her like a ragdoll. With a guttural growl and bone-snapping power, it hurls her across the chamber, slamming her through a half-open bulkhead door with a clang. The door sparks and slams shut behind her.

“PÄIVÄTÄR!” Michael shouts, racing toward the sealed hatch—only for Nohr to grab his arm.

“She’s alive,” Nohr says, breath sharp, “but we can’t help her if we’re dead!”

The creature snarls—long head twitching, its eyeless face somehow still conveying rage. It starts toward them, each step shaking the metal beneath their feet.

“Run now,” Nohr hisses. “Find the heart piece. We get her back after we survive.”

The two sprint toward a door at the far end of the corridor, flickering lights revealing the faded word “MUNITIONS” stenciled above it.

“Oh I like the words for that door!” Michael yells, voice tinged with panic and excitement.

The screeching beast behind them lets out a low, guttural growl, its massive feet slamming against the deck with every step—it’s gaining fast.

Nohr’s eyes flick between the door, the closing distance, and Michael.

“Shit—he’s not gonna make it if we both run.”

With a sharp inhale, Nohr makes a split-second choice.

“HEY! YOU UGLY SPACE SLUG!” they bellow, abruptly veering left into a side corridor. “COME AND GET ME!”

The monster halts for a half-second, hissing, its head snapping in Nohr’s direction. Then—it charges after them, drawn to the motion, the noise, the challenge.

Michael skids to the munitions door, slamming his hand against the access panel. It hisses open, revealing a dimly lit armory stacked with retro-futuristic weaponry, half of it looking cobbled together from a VHS repair shop and a fever dream.

Michael stares after Nohr, breathing hard.

“Damn it, Nohr…”

He dives inside, the door sealing shut behind him with a hiss.

Nohr bolts down the dim corridor, boots pounding against the metal grating. The monster’s roar echoes behind them, followed by the clang clang clang of its limbs smashing against walls and floor, gaining ground fast.

“Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea—”

Then—a miracle.

To their left: a human-sized maintenance panel, slightly ajar, blinking with an old override light. Without thinking, Nohr dives headfirst into it, the sharp edge of the frame scraping their coat as they squeeze into the narrow crawlspace.

Just as they slide in, they feel a rush of air—then a bone-thin, taloned arm whips past the hatch, barely missing them. The monster lets out a snarling hiss that reverberates through the metal.

Nohr doesn’t look back.

They scramble deeper into the access shaft, twisting and pulling themselves along the dim passage lit by intermittent orange lights.

“Too close, too close…” they whisper, breath ragged.

Behind them, the sound of claws scraping against metal begins to fade—just barely.

Nohr, wedged deep in the maintenance shaft, twists to glance behind them. In the flickering orange light, they see the monstrous claw retract, followed by the sound of thudding footsteps—and then, suddenly—

Gunfire. Rapid. Thunderous.

“Is Michael… shooting it?” Nohr whispers, baffled.

Smash cut to the munitions bay, now trashed. A massive exo-skeletal power suit stomps out, jury-rigged cables and armor plates hanging off like armor scavenged from a dozen video game loadouts. Atop it: Michael, face determined, a ridiculously oversized rifle clutched in mechanical arms.

“Get away from them, you bitch!!” Michael bellows, grinning wildly. “Man, I’ve always wanted to say that!”

He charges the creature, unleashing a storm of bullets, the weapon roaring like thunder. Sparks fly as they slam into the alien’s sleek frame, the force driving it back with each hit. The creature shrieks, writhing, clearly not used to prey fighting back.

Nohr hears the chaos echoing through the vents, a slow smile spreading across their face.

“Okay, Michael. You’ve earned like… three cool points.”

Michael watches, panting, as the massive alien writhes, then lets out a final gurgling shriek. Its acidic blood hisses and smokes, eating through the metal plating beneath it like molten lava through paper.

“I really hope that doesn’t bite us in the ass,” he mutters, still gripping the rifle—

—until it clicks empty.

A sudden groan of metal echoes through the corridor. The creature’s corpse finishes its death melt, burning a hole clean through the deck—and then:

WHOOSH.

Alarms blare. A vacuum vortex tears through the outpost, yanking anything not bolted down toward the newly opened breach in the hull.

“Oh, fucking course!!”

Michael struggles inside the bulk of the exosuit, suddenly too slow, too clunky. The entire rig topples sideways, the vacuum dragging it toward the breach like a giant metal paperweight.

With frantic fingers, Michael fumbles for the release latch—the HUD flashes red warnings, air pressure dropping fast. Finally, with a clang, the exosuit releases, and he scrambles free, grabbing for anything—a dangling pipe, a broken console—

His hand finds a loose cable, and he clutches it just as his feet lift off the ground.

The wind howls. Panels rip from the walls. Somewhere, a robotic voice calmly reminds everyone this is “not an ideal environment for continued respiration.”

Michael’s cheeks puff with held breath.

“Yeah, no shit!”

The cable snaps loose from the panel, and he’s instantly airborne, the vacuum yanking him toward the jagged, hissing hole in the ship’s hull—a glowing ring of acid-burned metal.

“No no no no—!”

He twists in the air, arms flailing, trying to grab anything—but there’s nothing.

Everything not bolted down is flying past him: loose panels, broken gear, half-crushed boxes—

And then—

WHAM.

A stack of heavy cargo crates, previously sealed and braced in the loading bay, slams together mid-air like a barricade born of chaos, jamming directly over the breach just as Michael is inches from being sucked through.

The sound cuts out in a muffled pop. The vacuum is sealed.

Michael slams against the wall instead of being spaced. He crumples to the floor, gasping, eyes wide, staring at the impromptu wall of crates now fused to the buckled, acid-etched metal.

Silence. Just the sound of his own breathing and a single overhead light flickering in protest.

He lies there a beat, panting.

“I hate space,” he groans. “So much.”

Michael slowly picks himself up, groaning, his muscles aching from the fall and the adrenaline crash. He brushes some debris off and staggers forward.

“Päivätär? Nohr?!”

From a side bulkhead door, Päivätär steps out, slightly limping, her clothes singed at the edges. In her hand is something glowing, shiny, and unmistakably odd—a heart-shaped shard that looks like it’s made from translucent vinyl.

From above, a loud clang echoes, and Nohr tumbles out of a vent, landing with a grunt. They hold something just as strange: a black VHS case, the label hand-drawn with a cute little heart doodled in pink marker.

“Are you guys okay?!” Michael rushes over, eyes wide.

Päivätär winces. “Yeah. I’m sore in places I forgot I had. Who’d have thought we could get bruised in your mindscape?”

She holds up the glowing vinyl heart shard. “I found this in a room while trying to find my way back to you. It practically sang to me.”

Nohr flips open the case just enough to peek inside. “I found this jammed in the vent. Looks like it survived the late fees.”

Michael raises a brow. “There’s a Blockbuster in my head. Of course there is.”

Nohr smirks. “You’re welcome.”

Michael takes both items from his companions. He gently slides the vinyl heart shard into one of his jacket pockets, then turns the VHS case over in his hands, studying it with a furrowed brow.

He slowly opens it.

Empty.

“Wait—what the fuck?!” Michael stares into the hollow shell, his face contorted in disbelief. “Where’s the heart piece? Is the case the heart piece, or… is it missing?”

Nohr leans in, placing a steadying hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“This may be a missing piece—one that was stolen from you. We’ll need to track down the other two.”

Michael swallows hard, the weight of it settling in.

“Figures. Even in my own head, nothing comes easy.”

Chapter 10: Dénouement

The tavern was an orchestra of chaos.

Dokkaebi zipped back and forth behind the main bar, dodging flung tankards, pouring bubbling elixirs, and frantically sliding drinks across the long counter. A glowing green cocktail landed in the clawed hand of a dragon-headed warrior. Another shot glass spiraled through the air and landed—miraculously upright—in front of a Norse valkyrie with a booming laugh.

“Damnit, Nohr! How do you make this look so easy?!” Dokkaebi cried, barely ducking as a flaming spear clattered to the floor behind him.

A chorus of mythical beings, gods, and long-forgotten heroes filled the tavern: a cyclopean creature was arm-wrestling with a Roman demigod, while a fox spirit from the east whispered riddles to a cloaked desert wanderer. It was as if every corner of mythology had RSVP’d to chaos—and brought their thirst.

“Oh my! You poor dear blubbering goblin!” came a smooth, teasing voice from the end of the bar.

Dokkaebi spun around, his hair frizzed and one sleeve soaked in something vaguely glowing. He glared at the speaker.

Standing there with a knowing smirk and a carved wooden pipe was Iktomi, the Lakota trickster spirit—spider, storyteller, chaos-magnet, and, at present, supremely amused.

“Why don’t you weave a little web of control, hmm?” Iktomi teased, leaning on the bar with a wink. “Or are you too busy playing fetch with fermented starroot?”

Dokkaebi let out an exasperated groan, yanking a cork out with his teeth. “You wanna pour drinks? Be my guest, webbutt.”

“Oh no,” Iktomi said with a grin, “I’d rather watch the goblin flail.”

Dokkaebi sneered at Iktomi and turned back to the bar with a grumble. “Webbutt. Hah. I’ll show you a web of flying tankards.”

With a blur of movement and flair, the goblin resumed their frenzied work—dodging requests, flinging mugs, and sloshing divine spirits into cups like their life depended on it. Somewhere in the din, someone began singing an ancient war chant to the beat of tankards slamming on the tables. The tavern, as ever, pulsed with unruly myth and cosmic mischief.

—

Far from the chaos, in the stillness of the Heart Sanctum, the air was silent save for the faint hum of ambient energy radiating from the stone walls.

Ukko sat in quiet vigilance, a large weathered chair creaking under his weight. Before him, the still bodies of Michael, Nohr, and Päivätär were each seated, their heads resting back, their faces calm—yet occasionally twitching with emotion. A flicker of fear. A wince of pain. A fleeting smile, then sorrow again.

“I wonder what it is they’re experiencing,” Ukko murmured, his voice echoing softly in the chamber.

He rose from the chair and stepped closer to Päivätär. Her expression had just shifted, brows furrowed, a soft sound escaping her lips. He reached out, gently brushing a golden strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

“You’re strong,” he said quietly. “Whatever you’re facing in there… I know you’ll find your way through.”

Ukko turned to glance at Michael and Nohr, both equally still—though Michael’s fingers twitched now and then, as though grasping something unseen. Nohr’s brow creased, a silent warrior bracing through some unseen storm.

Ukko sighed, folding his arms. “Come back, all of you. We’ll need each other soon.”

Unseen by Ukko, a faint ripple of darkness slithered along the edge of a shelf—subtle as a breeze, thin as smoke. It crawled silently across the stone floor, its edges wisping like shadowy tendrils around the legs of ancient furniture, slipping between candlelit cracks and books half-opened from earlier study.

It moved with purpose.

Toward Michael.

A faint hiss curled from the shadows, too quiet to echo properly. “We will get what we want.”

Ukko’s ear twitched. He turned his head. “Hmm?” His voice broke the hush. “Is someone here?”

He stepped away from the trio’s bodies, eyes narrowing, the weight of his presence steady but now alert. He scanned the corners of the sanctum—among scrolls, under benches, behind carved stone alcoves filled with relics. His hand briefly hovered near the haft of the hammer slung across his back.

There was nothing. And yet…

Behind him, the shadow reached out—curling like fingers toward Michael’s unmoving chest.

Ukko paused, his brow furrowing. “I could have sworn…”

The candlelight nearest Michael flickered, dimmed—then flared. A tiny gust, perhaps. Or something more.

The air grew heavy, thick with tension as Ukko’s voice thundered through the sanctum.

“Show yourself!”

His hammer hummed with a low, ominous pitch, arcs of lightning dancing up its length. The stone beneath his boots vibrated subtly, reacting to his charge. His eyes now fully ablaze with crackling blue light scanned the room like twin storms.

For a heartbeat, everything was silent.

Then—

A guttural hiss split the quiet, not from the shadows, but from within them. The creeping blackness recoiled slightly, its tendrils bunching as if in fear or contempt. It hesitated at the edge of Michael’s cot… then began to retreat, slowly, as though melting backward into the deepest cracks and corners.

Ukko took a step forward, hammer raised. “Your darkness is no match for me,” he growled, a rumble echoing beneath his words like distant thunder.

The shadows stilled, as if calculating.

Then a voice—thin, layered like whispers piled upon whispers—slid into the room.

“Not… yet.”

And just like that, the last of the tendrils vanished beneath a stone shelf. The air lightened. The candles steadied. The hum of Nohr’s protective enchantments whispered faintly again.

Ukko stood still a moment longer, eyes scanning, heart steady. Slowly, he lowered his hammer. But his gaze stayed locked where the shadow had vanished.

“To Hel with your games,” he muttered. “You’ll not touch them while I stand.”

And from behind him, Michael’s fingers twitched. Just once.

Ukko exhales through his nose and slowly returns to his seat, the crackling energy of his hammer dimming as he rests it against his knee. He leans back, but his posture remains rigid—alert. One hand idly strokes his long, weathered beard, his mind replaying the shadow’s hiss.

His sharp eyes shift between the still bodies of Michael, Nohr, and Päivätär. Despite their peace in the physical world, their faces twitch with tension—brows furrowed, jaws clenched, sweat beginning to bead on Michael’s forehead.

Ukko grunts softly. “You’d better be winning in there.”

Then, with a sigh, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, still stroking his beard as he resumes his silent vigil—an ancient god at watch, unmoved by time, but troubled by the darkness that dared to whisper so close.

The soft clatter of keyboards. Fluorescent lighting hums above rows of cramped cubicles.

Rows of reapers in varying styles of antiquated office wear sit at their desks, flipping files and tapping into computer terminals that flicker between divine script and bureaucratic jargon. In the far corner, away from the others, sits Jeoseung Saja—silent, focused.

He’s surrounded by a stack of red-flagged folders, but only one is open in front of him.

The name: Michael

Status: Undefined

Origin: Redacted

Soul Alignment: Obscured

Jeoseung Saja adjusts his glasses, his finger hesitating above the keyboard before typing a query into the terminal:

“Has any cosmic or divine entity ever altered a mortal soul’s nature prior to divine classification?”

The screen flickers—then glitches. Characters scramble, and a warning flashes:

“ACCESS DENIED: Class-S Oversight Required.”

He leans back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“So someone or something beat the gods to the punch…” he mutters.

He reaches for a pen—this is worth writing down.

But before ink hits paper, he stops, eyes narrowing.

Not yet. Not where others might find it.

Especially not with Ankou sniffing around.

The soft hum of overhead lights buzzed in quiet protest above rows of identical gray cubicles. The clacking of keyboards and low murmur of spectral whispers were all standard ambiance in the Reaper Division’s processing wing—until that sound broke through.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Each step rang out like a metronome dipped in sarcasm, the unmistakable rhythm of overly-polished shoes designed not for comfort, but theatricality. Jeoseung Saja didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The chill that accompanied each click confirmed his suspicion before the voice even slid into the air like oil across a still pond.

“Oh, Saja,” Ankou’s voice came with practiced ease—velvet layered over thorns. “Why oh why is it that every time there’s a disturbance in our neat little afterlife bureaucracy, your name bubbles to the surface?”

He strolled down the cubicle row like a model on a runway, hands clasped behind his back, suit shifting in shades of darkness that seemed to devour the light around him. Colleagues glanced up, then quickly looked back down, pretending to work twice as hard.

Ankou stopped beside Jeoseung Saja’s desk and leaned in with a smile that belonged on a predator.

“You could just toss that file to me. Really, I insist. I’d handle it with all the delicacy it deserves, my colleague.” The last word was dipped in venom and garnished with a mocking tone.

Jeoseung Saja met the gaze, eyes like still water hiding deep currents. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Just slowly reached forward and pressed a single key on his monitor. The screen blinked off, hiding whatever information it had been displaying.

A long, silent moment hung between them.

“I’ll handle it,” Saja said at last, voice level but cold enough to frost glass. “As is my responsibility.”

Ankou’s grin didn’t fade. If anything, it grew wider.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he said, running a fingertip along the edge of the desk, pausing at the corner of the now-dark monitor. “But when that little curiosity of yours explodes in your face—and it will—don’t say I didn’t offer to take it off your hands.”

He straightened up, turned on his heel, and continued his exaggerated walk down the corridor, each step echoing behind him like a cloc down.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Jeoseung Saja waited until the last echo faded, then turned his monitor back on and resumed his search. But now, his fingers hovered just a moment longer above the keyboard. There was more urgency behind his movements now—Ankou’s visit wasn’t just meddling.

It was a warning.

And not the helpful kind.

The faint glow of Jeoseung Saja’s terminal dimmed as he locked the file behind three separate authorization runes. He rose from his seat, straightening his crisp black jacket and sliding the Michael file into a satchel at his side. With a final glance at the rows of clicking, flickering cubicles, he stepped into the central corridor.

The Reaper Division was vast, a paradox of order and entropy—soul intake on one side, audit and correction on the other, and somewhere in between, the hallways that led to those whose desks sat a little closer to power.

Jeoseung Saja walked with purpose, his boots echoing along the obsidian-tiled floor. Faint whispers curled along the walls—residual psychic chatter from archived memories—but he tuned it all out. Only one thought occupied his mind now:

If this has happened before, she would know.

As he neared the towering doors of the Director’s office—lacquered cherry wood, inlaid with pearls that shimmered like captured moonlight—he paused.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound came again.

From the other side of the hall, stepping daintily out of the Director’s chamber, came Ankou.

Their grin was already waiting for him.

“Well well… always a step behind, aren’t we?” Ankou purred, adjusting the cuffs of their suit. “You know, it really is adorable—your sense of duty. Like a stray dog barking at thunder.”

Jeoseung Saja didn’t move. He watched.

Ankou’s eyes gleamed, the color unreadable—swirling like oil on water. “She’s in a delightful mood today. Be sure to knock gently.”

With a mock bow and a sweeping turn, Ankou vanished down a branching corridor, the sound of those flamboyant shoes trailing behind like a countdown to something terrible.

Jeoseung Saja exhaled once, sharply, then approached the doors.

He raised a knuckle, but before it connected—

“Oh, come in, dear,” came a lilting voice through the wood, sweet and precise as porcelain tea cups clinking together.

He pushed the door open.

The Director of the Underworld sat behind a desk made of fossilized memories and dreams, a riot of pastel decor blooming around her like springtime exploded in an office. Piles of neatly labeled scrolls, a jar of licorice sticks, and a cup that read “#1 Soul Mom” completed the picture.

She looked like a porcelain doll, dressed in a perfectly pressed peach-colored suit, her hair curled into a flawless vintage bob. Her expression was pleasant—excessively so—but her eyes carried the weary sharpness of someone who had graded one too many detention essays from eternity’s worst students.

“Jeoseung, darling!” she said brightly, gesturing to the pink-and-gold cushioned chair in front of her desk. “You’re looking terribly stiff. Sit. Sit. You’re giving me scoliosis just watching you.”

He gave a slight bow and took the seat.

She leaned forward, folding her manicured hands with a motherly sigh. “Now, what peculiar irregularity has you climbing all the way up my ladder today, hmm? And don’t tell me it’s another complaint about the Re-education Department’s mandatory empathy workshops. You’re all getting them. Even Ankou.”

He opened the satchel, gently placing the Michael file in front of her. “This one isn’t mine. Not properly. It… predates classification. It doesn’t fit.”

The sweetness didn’t leave her voice, but her hands froze for half a heartbeat.

“Predates classification?” she repeated softly, like a librarian encountering a book that had written itself.

She opened the folder.

One glance, and her smile faltered—just slightly.

“Oh,” she said.

Not with fear.

But familiarity.

She slowly closed the folder, fingers resting gently on the cover.

“My dear boy,” she murmured, tone dropping into a timbre more reminiscent of chalk on slate. “You’ve stepped into one of those.”

He frowned. “So this has happened before.”

She stood, smoothing her skirt with careful, mechanical precision. “Not often. And never without consequence.”

She walked to a filing cabinet that hadn’t existed a moment ago, unlocked it with a key made of sighs, and pulled out a file marked with a strange glyph. She didn’t hand it to him. Only held it. Thoughtfully.

“This kind of soul is like a word misspelled in the Book of Fate before the ink dries. Which is… impossible, theoretically. But here we are.” Her eyes, which had seemed sweet and bright moments ago, now gleamed like coins at the bottom of a well. “And I suggest, dear Jeoseung, that you tread very carefully. Not everyone wants this corrected.”

She glanced—just once—at the still-crackling edge of the file. Then, she gently returned it to the cabinet and locked it again.

“Oh, and do take care with Ankou,” she added lightly, walking back to her desk. “He’s always had an interest in unclaimed anomalies. A hobby, really. Like knitting.”

She sat down, her smile firmly back in place. “But with more cosmic implications and marginally fewer cats.”

Jeoseung Saja rose and gave a respectful bow.

“And if you find yourself unraveling,” she added, plucking a licorice stick from the jar, “do stop in again. I do enjoy a good story.”

He left without another word, the weight of everything settling heavier with each step. Ankou had already known. And the Director had seen this before.

But the most disturbing thing of all?

No one seemed surprised.

Jeoseung Saja stepped out of the Director’s office and let the grand door ease shut behind him with a soft click. The pastel shimmer of Marigold’s domain faded into the dim, cool hues of the outer corridor, and with it, the echo of her saccharine tone.

He paused in the hallway.

Eyes narrowing. Shoulders squaring.

She knew more than she said.

That brief falter—barely noticeable in her expression, but it was there. The file. The glyph. The way she didn’t hand it to him, didn’t even let him look at it fully. She spoke like a retired librarian too tired to burn the forbidden books… but not too tired to hide them.

He adjusted the strap of his satchel and started walking again, slower this time. His mind spun through every word, every gesture.

She’s hiding something. I can feel it.

Michael was more than a bureaucratic hiccup. More than a misplaced soul. Something ancient, or worse—impossible. And Marigold? For all her grandmotherly manners and sugar-cookie charm, she was old. Possibly older than the Underworld itself. She hadn’t always been the Director—but she’d always been around.

Which meant she knew exactly what this was.

And she’s keeping it quiet.

His footsteps echoed a little louder now as he descended a flight of curling stairs lined with soul lanterns. They flickered slightly when he passed, like they recognized the weight he carried.

Saja’s brow furrowed deeper.

If she won’t tell me, then maybe… maybe Ankou will.

He grimaced at the thought. Everything in his gut told him to avoid that grinning specter. But the grin—it had flaunted something. Knowledge. Amusement. Intention.

He didn’t trust Ankou.

But he might be the only one loose-lipped enough to let something slip.

Time to play the fool and be the shadow. Buddy up. Watch. Follow. Listen.

Saja adjusted the collar of his coat, his expression flattening into that familiar mask of unreadable neutrality.

Let’s see what Ankou is really after.

Chapter 11: Keeper

The city pulsed.

Neon signs buzzed in a half-dozen languages—Korean, Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, German, English—flickering over cramped alleyways and slick rain-slicked pavement. Every surface screamed something: games, stims, street food, flesh, data, escape. A low haze clung to the ground, glowing electric blue under the undercarriage lights of hovering bikes and skittering delivery drones.

Michael stood in the middle of a crossing that didn’t seem to end, surrounded by people—but no one bumped into him. As if he wasn’t there. As if he were almost real.

“I’m in some weird cyberpunk world?” he muttered, looking up at a spinning hologram of a silver koi that blinked BUY VITALCORE ENERGY with every swish of its tail.

He reached up and touched his face. Solid. Real. He felt the cold sting of rain on his skin, the tang of ozone in the air.

“I mean… I liked the tabletop games,” he added, his voice quieter, more unsure now. “But this isn’t right.”

He turned a slow circle, taking it all in—the chrome, the grime, the color, the edge. In the far distance, towering above the other buildings like a god that had gentrified heaven, a skyscraper flickered with the word KEEPER in bright red letters.

Below it: something strange. Like static, just for a second. The word glitched.

And Michael felt it.

A pull.

Like something was expecting him.

Where’s Nohr and Päivätär?” Michael asked the glowing air around him, eyes scanning the crowds as he started walking toward the red-lit tower in the distance. “Are they already in there? Are they alright?”

The city didn’t answer, but it moved. The crowds shifted like current around a stone—never touching him, never making way, just… adjusting. Street vendors shouted over one another in a cacophony of languages and digital noise.

“Fresh-grown synth meat skewers! Only twenty creds!”

“Neurojack now, pay later!”

“Immersive joydreams! Guaranteed climax or your coin back!”

Michael flinched as a holoscreen popped up inches from his face. Then another. And another. Glowing AR flyers stacked into his vision, advertising everything from illegal mods to companionship services to “NFT tattoos for the astral-conscious.” Each one came with sound—syrupy voices whispering promises, or booming like used hovercar salesmen.

“Oh come on,” Michael groaned, swatting one away with his hand like a buzzing fly. The rest pulsed and dodged his attempts, multiplying every time he touched them.

He stopped in the middle of the walkway, half his vision obscured by pop-ups and glitching neon. He sighed deeply, glared straight ahead, and muttered darkly, “Man, I really hope this isn’t the future people actually get in real life.”

With a decisive swipe, he selected CLOSE ALL, and the city peeled back into clarity.

He took a breath, adjusted his coat—which he wasn’t sure he had been wearing a moment ago—and broke into a jog toward the tower marked KEEPER, weaving between the techno-shadows and electric alleyways like a man chasing something just out of reach.

As Michael approached the massive tower, the air grew heavier—denser somehow, like the city itself was holding its breath. The front plaza sprawled before him: all stark white marble veined with flickering neon, a stark contrast to the grime and blur of the rest of the city. Steps led up to a pair of massive, sealed chrome doors.

Just as he reached the base of the steps, a booming thud-thud-thud shook the ground beneath him.

Michael froze.

From the shadows of a nearby security checkpoint, a hulking, bipedal mech stomped forward. All steel limbs and gunports, it looked like a slightly rusted cousin of ED-209—except this one had been decked out in neon strobe decals and a scrolling digital banner across its chest reading:

“WELCOME TO THE KEEPER. COMPLIANCE = SECURITY.”

It whirred loudly, servo motors twitching as its sensors locked onto Michael. A distorted, cheerful voice blared from the speaker mounted on its head:

“UNREGISTERED INDIVIDUAL DETECTED. PLEASE PRODUCE ENTRY CREDENTIALS.”

Michael raised his hands slowly. “Whoa, okay. I don’t think I have credentials. This is all kinda—dreamy? Unlicensed? Bad VR?”

The robot’s legs shifted. Guns clicked ominously.

“WARNING. NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO COMPLY.”

“Wait, wait, WAIT—seriously? You’re really doing the Robocop thing?!” Michael shouted, backing up toward a flickering bench covered in faux-graffiti. “I’m not even armed! I didn’t bring a dream gun! I didn’t know I could! Someone cue the glitchy escape sequence, please!”

The robot’s countdown started.

“Ten… Nine… Eight…”

Michael bolted.

“Six… Five… Four…”

Michael darted behind one of the chrome support pillars just as the mech opened fire—loud, concussive blasts echoing off the marble like fireworks gone to war. Shards of stone and bits of neon signage exploded in every direction. He ducked low, heart pounding.

“Why always the giant gun robots?!” he hissed. “Why not a mildly annoyed kiosk attendant for once?”

The robot stomped forward, turning its torso like a turret.

“TARGET NONCOMPLIANT. INITIATING NEUTRALIZATION.”

Then—

BOOM.

A shotgun blast slammed into the mech’s side, sparking circuits and forcing it to stumble back. Michael peeked out just as the shotgun fired again—BOOM—this time knocking one of the bot’s arm-cannons off with a fizzing, mechanical shriek.

Standing tall just ahead in the smoke and debris was Nohr—decked out in a   leather biker jacket fitted perfectly to their slim, androgynous frame. Sunglasses glinting. Hair tousled and iconic. Every bit the dream-born badass. The shotgun rested casually on their shoulder as they looked at Michael.

“Come with me if you want to live,” Nohr said, voice smooth with that signature deadpan… then flashed a sly wink.

Michael blinked, breath caught. “Okay, now I know I’m dreaming,” he muttered, scrambling out from cover.

Nohr blasted the mech one more time for good measure, then gestured. “Tower’s not safe alone. Päivätär’s ahead, and the dreams are getting worse. You in?”

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Born ready. Well—dream-born, maybe.”

They ran together toward the tower entrance, the mech collapsing behind them in a rain of sparks.

As the tower doors slammed shut behind them with a hiss of pressure and neon glyphs pulsing along the edges, Michael took a second to catch his breath. The lobby stretched in sleek, high-gloss black and electric blue, buzzing faintly with ambient techno hums and impossible architecture that looped back on itself if you stared too long.

Nohr cocked their head and adjusted their sunglasses. “Päivätär said she’d meet us—”

“So what was all that gunfire?” a voice chimed from above, sharp and amused.

Michael looked up—and there she was, reclining casually across a floating stairway like a cat who’d hacked her way into godmode. Päivätär’s outfit glowed with white-blue circuitry lines, hugging her form like a particular blonde wearing that skintight suit had wandered into a dystopian nightclub. Her platinum hair shimmered, impossibly straight and luminous under the holographic lights.

She slowly descended the stairs, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “You two get excited out there or something?”

Michael flushed. “It wasn’t—We were—there was a killbot!”

Päivätär just smirked and winked at them both. “Mmmhmm. Looked like a lot of fun from my end. Real bullets and all.”

She walked past them, then gestured with a flick of her wrist at an elevator appearing from nowhere, its display lighting up.

69th Floor.

“That’s where we need to go,” she said. Then, grinning: “Nice.”

Michael groaned. “Really?”

Päivätär shrugged. “If this place is made of dream logic, I’m gonna enjoy the hell out of it.”

Nohr smirked faintly. “I second that.”

As the trio stepped into the elevator, Michael gave one last glance at the shattered scene outside.

“This is getting weirder by the minute.”

Nohr leaned against the wall. “Just wait ‘til we hit the next level.”

As the elevator ascended, the trio stood in its glass enclosure, watching the neon city smear past beneath them. A low, glitched piano melody warbled from unseen speakers, stuttering like a corrupted lullaby.

Bing.

“Twelfth floor: men’s wear—suits, jackets, sporting attire… banana hammocks,” droned the digitized voice.

Nohr arched an eyebrow and winked at Michael. “Guess this is as far as this one’s taking us.”

Michael groaned. “Please don’t tell me we have to climb a thousand flights of stairs. These knees were not made for walking.”

Päivätär rested a hand on her hip, giving him a sideways glance. “So what are they made for, then?”

Michael blinked. “Oh—uh—nope, definitely walking. Fully committed. Marching enthusiast, right here.”

Nohr burst out laughing as the doors slid open. “That’s what I thought.”

Okay, let’s spread out, but keep within sight of each other,” Nohr said, sliding a few shells into the shotgun with a practiced click-clack.

Michael raised a hand. “Do I get a weapon? I mean, let’s not forget my ‘stat sheet’ basically labeled me Average Joe,” he said, throwing up dramatic air quotes.

Päivätär grinned, twirling a glowing electric-blue saber like it was just another fabulous accessory. “Well, he does need something. Look at him—dressed to kill. What do we think, Nohr?”

Michael glanced down at himself, then caught his reflection in the sleek glass door beside them. He was decked out in a futuristic biker outfit—tight-lined, padded in all the right places, clearly built for speed and flair. The color was a deep gunmetal gray, not unlike a stealth-mode version of a certain legendary anime look. Dangling from his hip was a small keychain shaped exactly like that iconic red motorcycle, gleaming under the neon lights.

“Whoa… okay. Cool,” he muttered, giving the keychain a flick and watching it spin as he turned to admire the jacket from every angle.

Nohr reached into their coat and pulled out a sleek, matte black handgun. It had that uncanny familiarity—like something out of a dream or a sci-fi film you couldn’t quite place. Not quite the past, not quite the future. The contours were smooth, the barrel short but thick, and the grip glowed faintly with a pulsing line of cobalt blue. Something between the brutal practicality of Blade Runner and the elegance of a designer prototype.

They tossed it to Michael, who caught it with a surprised grunt.

“Two mags,” Nohr said, flipping him a pair of slim cartridges. “That’s all we’ve got. So maybe don’t go guns blazing, cowboy.”

Michael looked down at the gun in his hand, weighing it. “Right… controlled chaos only.”

Nohr gave him a grin that was half-warning, half-pride. “Exactly.”

The trio made their way across the wide expanse of the dimly lit office floor, passing scattered desks and terminals that flickered with lines of outdated code. At the far end, they came to another elevator—this one sealed behind a sleek glass panel and a blinking red sensor.

Päivätär tried the panel, but it buzzed at her and flashed a denial. “Locked. Needs a red keycard.”

Michael groaned, slumping slightly. “Of course it does. What is this, a horror game now?”

Nohr sighed, racking the shotgun and slinging it over their shoulder. “Alright. Let’s start looking. There are five offices on each side—let’s clear ’em one by one.”

They moved methodically through the open office floor, rifling through drawers, bypassing security locks with clever hacks, and shoving aside dusty piles of forgotten files. Each room felt more like a set dressing than a place anyone actually worked—cold, impersonal, eerily untouched.

After the eighth room yielded nothing but a half-eaten protein bar and a cracked holographic photo frame, Michael trudged into the ninth office, ready to give up. The room looked like the last—a desk, a dead plant, a chair that had seen better centuries.

He sighed, opened a drawer, and… there it was.

Just sitting there.

A glowing red keycard, perfectly centered in a velvet-lined compartment like it had been waiting politely the whole time.

Michael blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Nohr leaned in from the hallway, shotgun still in hand. “Don’t tell me—”

Michael held it up.

Päivätär walked by without stopping. “Well. That was… thrilling.”

Michael pocketed the card with a shrug. “Game design’s getting lazy.”

As the red keycard clicked into place and the elevator whirred to life, the trio gathered in front of the doors, waiting for the slow ascent back into the unknown.

Nohr leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “So, serious question… why is your subconscious basically a pop culture flea market?”

Michael blinked. “Excuse me?”

Päivätär smirked, her saber resting over her shoulder. “Yeah, you’ve referenced like five sci-fi movies in the past ten minutes. It’s like being stuck inside a mixtape of nerd nostalgia.”

Michael shrugged. “Hey, I’m a product of the 80s, alright? Pop culture practically raised me. Saturday morning cartoons, VHS rentals, and dial-up internet. You know, trauma.”

Nohr raised an eyebrow. “And that makes you what, exactly?”

“A walking compendium of useless trivia,” Michael replied proudly. “It’s a millennial survival trait. We cope with irony, memes, and pretending we’re not terrified. Our elders had wars—we had Blockbuster.”

Päivätär snorted. “Well, that explains the Kaneda cosplay.”

Michael looked down again at his outfit. “You know what? I’m owning it.”

Bing.

“Sixty-ninth flo—”

“Nice!” the trio chimed in unison, smirking like schoolkids.

They giggled as they stepped out, the mood briefly lightened by the shared joke.

“—Main office level. Welcome to the ZenithSpire Administrative Complex,” the mechanical voice finished in its droning, cheerful tone as the elevator doors hissed shut behind them.

Their eyes gazed across the room , revealing a sterile and off-putting lighting that resembled an emergency warning that never ceased.

Desks stretched out in perfect grids across the entire floor, each one identical and unnaturally pristine. No clutter, no papers, no personal touches—just blank monitors and chairs tucked in with military precision.

Michael glanced around uneasily. “Why does this look like an IKEA showroom for the soul?”

Nohr snorted, but their grip on the shotgun tightened. “Corporate purgatory. My least favorite layer of hell.”

Päivätär drifted ahead, boots quiet against the polished floor. “It’s too perfect. Like someone arranged it all for a display—except there’s no audience.”

At the far end of the room stood a large, imposing set of double doors. Metallic black with delicate silver inlay in abstract, curling patterns that felt almost… ceremonial. A round emblem rested at its center—smooth, mirrored, and unreadable.

Michael tilted his head. “That’s… kinda ominous.”

“I’ve seen this kind of door before,” Nohr muttered. “Not exactly like this but… it gives off the same vibe.”

They exchanged glances, then slowly approached. Nohr took position beside one side, Michael and Päivätär opposite.

Michael reached out first. His fingers hovered just above the door’s polished surface before he pushed it open—slowly, cautiously. The doors creaked with surprising weight, parting just enough to peer through.

A faint, rhythmic sound echoed from inside. Something between a heartbeat and the ticking of an ancient clock.

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Well… that’s not foreboding at all.”

Just as Michael pushed the door open a few more inches, a flicker of static burst into the air above the threshold. A digital shimmer coalesced into a floating, semi-transparent pop-up window.

A 3D hologram of Marigold appeared, beaming with artificial cheer. She was dressed in a glitzy power suit, nails tapping the air as she wagged a perfectly manicured finger.

“Ah ah ah! You didn’t say the magic word!” she chirped, winking. “Ah ah ah!”

The trio blinked in confusion as the image glitched, repeated itself, and then everything blinked white—

—WHUMP.

The three of them jolted awake, gasping in unison as if dropped back into their bodies. They were lying on the cool stone floor of the Heart Sanctum, breaths shallow, eyes wide.

Ukko, who had been meditating nearby, nearly fell off his stool. “Wh—What happened?! Are you three all good? You were out cold and twitching like you’d been zapped by a thousand volts!”

Michael sat up groaning. “Ow… brain reboot complete…”

Päivätär blinked and looked at her hands. “I swear I could still feel the heels on my boots.”

Nohr muttered, “We just got firewalled by a sentient HR department.”

Chapter 12: Chaos

Jeoseung Saja moved swiftly, his coat billowing behind him as he caught sight of Ankou ahead.

“Ankou! Hold up a second—I’ve got a question for you.”

Ankou didn’t turn. He merely stopped in his tracks and grinned, voice like syrup over steel. “Oh? Is that the good ol’ boy Saja I hear?” He turned his head just slightly, the grin widening. “What could you possibly want with moi?”

Jeoseung stepped up beside him, adjusting the lapel of his overcoat against the chill in the air. “I was wondering,” he said, with a careful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if we could grab lunch together?”

“Saja, Saja, Saja…” Ankou drawled, drawing out each syllable like a teasing lover. They turned fully now, a dramatic little pout tugging at their lips. “Why ever would we get lunch together? What could you possibly want?”

Jeoseung Saja’s expression didn’t waver. His voice remained level, almost cold in its restraint. “I figured we could discuss Michael’s file. In private. Away from the other… ‘lower’ reapers.” He didn’t blink. “Just between you and me.”

“Oh?” Ankou’s laughter slipped out like a purr wrapped in mockery. “Well, Saja, let’s go then. Let’s get ourselves a lovely little table for two at Le Séance Noire—I hear their soul consommé is to die for. And don’t worry…” they added with a wink, “they always have a table for moi.”

With a synchronized snap of their fingers, the two vanished in twin plumes of violet-black smoke, leaving behind only the faint scent of ash and expensive cologne.

——

Back in the Heart Sanctum, the strange hum of stillness returned—no flickering neon, no synth-glitch piano, just the steady thrum of magic and heartbeats.

Ukko hovered nearby, eyes scanning each of the trio with concern. “You’re sure you’re all okay? One moment you were still—then bam, you all jerked like you’d been shocked.”

Michael sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that… that was not just a dream.”

Päivätär looked between them. “We were somewhere real. Or at least, real enough.”

Nohr leaned back against one of the marble columns, arms crossed. “That image at the end. The one that said ‘You didn’t say the magic word’ and booted us out? Looked familiar.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You mean like déjà vu?”

Nohr shook their head. “No. Familiar like… it looked like her. Marigold. The Director of the Afterlife. Where Saja works.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and tense.

Ukko frowned, thoughtful. “That would mean… someone very high up is involved in this simulation—or knows more than they’re letting on.”

Michael muttered, “Great. So now we’re pissing off the bureaucracy and some kind of cosmic admin AI.”

Päivätär smirked. “Well, at least we’re not bored.”

“Okay, so then I have a question,” Michael said, glancing between the other three. “Do we trust Jeoseung Saja?”

The question hung in the air as they all exchanged uncertain looks.

Päivätär finally broke the silence, stretching her limbs with a small groan. “He was pretty aggressive when he slapped those Hangul papers on Michael. Not exactly a gentle approach.”

Ukko stepped in to brace her back as she bent into a deep stretch. “Careful, you’re not made of rubber.”

“Yes, well,” Nohr chimed in as they walked slowly toward the Heart Sanctum’s door, “he did only use binding spells. Could’ve gone a lot darker, if you think about it. And he let Michael go the moment I told him to. That says something, at least.”

Michael frowned, still clearly uneasy. “So… somewhere between benevolent middle manager and strict immortal parole officer?”

“Oh, definitely,” Päivätär smirked, “but make it fashion.”

Nohr paused at the threshold. “In any case, we should check on Dokkaebi. It’s been five days.”

Michael blinked. “Five? What the—last time we did this it was only three, and we crossed way more realms!”

“Oh, silly, cute boy,” Nohr chuckled, glancing over their shoulder with a playful wink. “Time does what it wants here. Don’t take it personally.”

They stepped through the door, leaving Michael blinking after them.

——

The world reassembled around Jeoseung Saja and Ankou with the soft clink of silverware and the murmur of velvet-clad conversation. They now stood in the middle of a dim, opulently lit restaurant—Le Séance Noire, the kind of place where time dripped like molasses and the maitre d’ judged your soul based on your cufflinks.

Everything inside was overdesigned to the point of satire: crystalline chandeliers shaped like inverted weeping willows, mahogany tables inlaid with fragments of old pocket watches, chairs that seemed to sigh when sat upon, and menus written in a language that sounded vaguely French but was probably nonsense.

“Ah,” Ankou said, stretching like a cat. “I do love this place. They always know exactly how rare I want the soul tartare.”

A bowing waiter materialized from thin air and escorted them to a table already laid with blood-red napkins and cutlery that gleamed like sacrificial blades.

Jeoseung Saja sat carefully, folding his coat behind him with sharp, practiced fingers. “You always did like dramatic flair.”

“Guilty,” Ankou purred, not bothering to hide their smug grin. “But then again, you’re the one who invited me to lunch, darling. So, Saja, what’s this really about Michael?”

Saja adjusted a cuff and looked out the window, which showed nothing but swirling void. “I need to know what you know. About him. About what Marigold is hiding.”

Ankou didn’t respond immediately. They were too busy stirring their drink with a tiny bone.

“You’re fishing, Saja. Dangerous waters. But lucky for you, I like games.”

They raised their glass and tapped it against Saja’s.

“To secrets,” Ankou said with a grin so wide it nearly split their face. “And the poor fools who think they can keep them.”

The waiter placed a plate of translucent carpaccio in front of Jeoseung Saja, its presentation immaculate and vaguely unsettling. Ankou, meanwhile, swirled a martini with something glowing and purple inside—possibly a soul, possibly just an extravagant garnish.

“So,” Ankou drawled, stabbing a pickled something with their fork, “this file of yours. Michael, yes? The dreamy mess of a soul with all those fascinating little… fractures.”

Jeoseung Saja nodded, his tone carefully neutral. “Yes. He’s… unique. Unplaced. Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

Ankou laughed lightly, swishing their martini. “Darling, I’ve seen everything. But that file, oh—delightfully vague, isn’t it? Like someone took a redacted government document and dipped it in metaphor.”

Saja raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve seen it.”

“Oh, bits of it.” Ankou waved a hand airily. “Pages out of order, parts blacked out, a warning scrawled in a language I don’t quite recognize. Honestly, it’s like it was made to frustrate me. You know I hate being out of the loop.”

Jeoseung Saja took a slow sip of water. He watched Ankou closely—no twitch of the eye, no falter in the tone. Either they were the best liar in any realm, or… they genuinely didn’t know.

And that’s when it hit him.

Ankou wasn’t part of some great scheme.

Ankou was also being kept in the dark.

A pawn.

Possibly dangerous, wildly unpredictable, but still just another piece on the board. Whatever game was being played—whatever Marigold was hiding—it was larger than both of them.

Still, Jeoseung Saja gave a pleasant, cold little smile.

“I see. Well. I had hoped you’d have more insight. But your candor is… appreciated.”

Ankou leaned in, lowering their voice to a conspiratorial purr. “Oh Saja, if you want real answers, maybe it’s time you stopped asking reapers and started digging deeper into the foundations of the system itself. You know—where the rot begins.”

They winked and bit into their soul tartare like it was the punchline.

Jeoseung Saja didn’t react. But inside, something shifted.

The rot.

Yes.

That was where he’d look next.

——

The Heart Sanctum door shimmered closed behind them as the group stepped back into the riotous heat and laughter of the tavern. A wave of noise greeted them—laughter, clinking glasses, music that didn’t obey the laws of rhythm or physics, and a collective energy that pulsed like a heartbeat.

At the center of it all, perched on the bar like he owned the place, was Dokkaebi—grinning from ear to pointed ear, his horns glinting beneath string lights made of miniature supernovas. He tossed a handful of shimmering tokens into the air and let them fall across the counter, where a trio of drunken centaurs erupted in applause.

“Oh,” Päivätär blinked, watching the chaos. “So he is doing alright?”

“Told you he’d be fine.” Nohr gave a sly shrug and casually stepped behind the bar, placing a firm hand on Dokkaebi’s shoulder.

“Dokkaebi, you goblin!” came a booming cheer from the corner.

The group turned as a thoroughly inebriated Ishtar, the Mesopotamian goddess of war, love, and apparently karaoke, raised a horn of something that steamed violet mist. “That trick with the flaming shot glass and the haunted flute? Iconic!”

Dokkaebi winked and gave a mock bow. “I aim to entertain, great lady. And never forget, first drink’s free for beings of divine trauma.”

The bar roared with laughter, and Michael just stood there, wide-eyed.

“Guys! Welcome back!” Dokkaebi called out, arms wide, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Oh, it’s been such a fun time while you were away!”

Michael just stared, utterly bewildered, as he took in the scene.

Gods and goddesses lounged like regulars at a dive bar-slash-immortal speakeasy. Ēostre sat at a corner booth, delicately enjoying a fresh springtime salad, petals and all, while Jesus slid in beside her, winked, and casually packed a bowl with his own lettuce.

“Well, Dokkaebi,” Nohr said, surveying the room with approval, “I see you’ve managed everything quite well.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t easy at first,” Dokkaebi admitted, drying a glass with a towel before tossing it aside to mix three drinks at once with flair. “But after the first thousand or so drinks, you get into a rhythm. Y’know, flow state.”

“Oh, my. A thousand drinks?” Päivätär raised an eyebrow. “Did the tavern spirits not help you?”

Nohr smirked. “Oh… did I forget to mention? This tavern has help.”

Dokkaebi froze, their jaw dropping slowly. “Wait… wait… Are you telling me I suffered, learned every trick of the bar trade by hand, and I could’ve had help the whole time?!”

They dramatically shook their head, eyes wide, towel limp in their hand.

The group couldn’t help it—they all burst into laughter in perfect unison, the sound rising above the clink of divine goblets and chaotic merrymaking.

Nohr clapped Dokkaebi on the back and gently nudged them aside. “Alright, alright. You’ve earned a break, you poor overworked goblin.”

Dokkaebi blinked, still reeling. “Wait—you’re taking over now?”

“Of course,” Nohr said with a mischievous grin, sliding behind the bar with practiced ease. “Can’t let you hog all the glory. Besides…”

They snapped their fingers.

From nowhere, invisible hands seemed to spring into action. Dishes materialized with a soft hum—steaming plates of savory meats, fresh vegetables, glowing glasses of honeyed mead, and sparkling springwater in cut crystal tumblers. The table near the hearth shimmered as it was set perfectly in an instant.

“…the tavern likes me better,” Nohr added, smugly.

Dokkaebi looked at the spread, then back to the bar, slack-jawed. “I hate you.”

Nohr winked. “Love you too.”

Michael chuckled as he helped guide Dokkaebi over to the now-lavish table. Päivätär was already lounging like a queen, sipping from a long glass of something that shimmered between colors. Ukko gave a slight nod of thanks to the invisible server that brought over a pitcher of something strong-smelling and amber-colored.

As the five settled in, the noise of the tavern carried on behind them—raucous, divine, eternal. But at this table, there was a moment of quiet intent.

“So,” Dokkaebi said, finally seated and still eyeing Nohr with a bit of mock betrayal. “What now?”

Michael leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “Yeah. What do we do next?”

“Well, we’ve got another heart piece,” Päivätär said, crossing one leg over the other and gesturing with a swirl of her hand like a magician prepping for the final act. “And now we’re left with even more questions. Why is this happening? What’s the purpose behind it all? And why, exactly, did Marigold show up?”

“Marigold?” Dokkaebi raised an eyebrow, a chunk of roast still halfway to their mouth. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“She’s the one who appeared—well, an image of her did,” Michael explained, his voice steady but with that anxious edge creeping in. “It popped up right before we got booted out of that skyscraper realm. Said we didn’t say the magic word.”

Päivätär leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “It wasn’t just a warning, though. It felt deliberate. That building felt… different. Like it held answers. Or was about to.”

Dokkaebi chewed slowly, then washed the bite down with a loud gulp from their tankard. “And you’re sure it was Marigold?”

Michael nodded. “Her voice. Her face. The smug little finger-wag. Like something out of an old computer virus from the ’90s.”

“Classic,” Nohr muttered from behind the bar with a smirk. “She does love theatrics.”

Ukko frowned slightly, resting his chin in one hand. “So either she’s part of it… or someone’s using her image. Either way, someone wants to send a message.”

“And we better figure out what it means,” Michael added, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup. “Before we run out of hearts to collect—or worse, before the wrong people find out we’re collecting them.”

Michael, they already know,” Nohr said quietly, their back turned as they mixed another round of drinks for a cluster of legends laughing near the hearth. “They’re trying to collect them too. There’s something about you—about collecting them from you.”

The weight of that hung in the air.

“We still don’t know about Jeoseung Saja,” Päivätär added, casually leaning back in her chair, eyes half-lidded but clearly thinking several moves ahead. “Is he just a pawn… or part of the plan?”

“I will have you know,” a cool voice cut through the room, “I am not part of whatever this plan is.”

The group turned to find Jeoseung Saja standing stiffly behind Päivätär, perfectly composed as always—though his eyes carried a glint of something restrained and sharp.

“I had to meet with Ankou,” he said, stepping closer to the table. “He’s a pawn. A clever one, but still caught in someone else’s game. And Marigold…” he trailed off a moment, gaze flicking toward Nohr as they approached from the bar, drying their hands on a towel, “…she’s hiding something. She’s older than our line of work. She’s been here since the beginning.”

Nohr paused, meeting Jeoseung’s eyes with a quiet nod—confirmation, or warning, it wasn’t clear.

“I’m Nohr,” Jeoseung Saja said coolly, tilting his head with a slight bow, “you’re older than most here—if not everyone. No offense, but you barely look a thousand over an eon.”

“Oh, you big flatterer,” Nohr smirked, brushing imaginary dust from their coat as they spun a chair around and straddled it with ease. “But yes… I’m older than everyone in this room combined. I was there when the universe was made. And unmade. And made again. And again.” They waved a hand lazily. “I’ve lost track of which iteration this is, but I quite like this one. Or at least, a good portion of the denizens.”

Michael blinked, jaw slightly slack. “Wait—more than one iteration? Are you saying the Big Bang… happened multiple times?”

Nohr simply nodded, then shrugged as if he’d asked whether they preferred tea or coffee. “Oh, countless times. Bang, pop, fizzle, boom. Some were louder than others. This one’s been one of the more theatrical rounds, though.”

Marigold. She’s old, yes—but not as ancient as most believe. Older than most gods and titans, but not all. She’s a distant cousin to the titans, a name long lost to time.” Nohr’s voice was even, almost casual. “But she wasn’t always the gentle figure she pretends to be. She didn’t believe in redemption for the lost, or re-education for the misguided. To her, there was only finality—suffering for your errors, no matter how minor… or how great.”

They looked off into one of the moving picture frames on the tavern wall. It flickered from two galaxies devouring each other into a serene spring meadow on an alien world, where strange flora danced under the gaze of distant planets.

I wonder if the rest like her are still around, or if they’ve faded into history,” Nohr mused, their voice tinged with a distant heaviness. “She had brothers and sisters, each with their own… peculiarities. Cruelty, of course, was their common thread. There was never anything decent about any of them.”

They paused, a deep sigh escaping their lips. “I remember her sister—Karen. She’d always feign weakness, pretend to be wronged. Draw in the pity of the unwitting, make them kneel in sympathy. And when they did, she’d devour them whole.”

Michael’s brow furrowed, but Nohr continued, almost lost in memory. “We lost an entire galaxy to her. It burned itself out in just a thousand years.”

“And then there was her brother—boastful, gaudy, dramatic in the worst ways. Called himself Chad. Said it was a ‘righteous, simple name’ that the lesser beings could remember… and fear.”

Nohr stood and moved toward one of the animated picture frames. This one showed a tranquil ocean beneath the night sky, a glowing village perched along cliffs like a Mediterranean dream. Lanterns and fireworks bloomed in the air as fantastical airships drifted above, their sails catching moonlight.

“We celestials tried reason first. Tried to convince them to stop. But they would not. So we gave them a choice: cease… or vanish.” Nohr’s gaze stayed fixed on the scene. “A war followed. One unlike any other. We lost many. In the end, they were captured—sealed away in prisons so deep and forgotten that even Kronos and Tartarus themselves dare not peer into them.”

So how is it that Marigold isn’t imprisoned, and yet she’s the one in charge of reeducation?” Ukko asked, his expression caught between confusion and fury.

“She came to us with her hands raised,” Nohr replied calmly, “scythe tilted to show she meant no harm. She claimed she wanted the fighting to end—to save what remained of her siblings… and the universe we inhabited. It was her plan to use the gateways between the six realms to trap them. Not to destroy them, but to contain them. To give them a chance to change.”

Nohr returned to their chair, lifting a goblet from the table and swirling its contents thoughtfully before sipping.

“So she’s cunning,” Jeoseung Saja said, voice ice-cold. “A betrayer. She turned on her own blood. Even if she says it was to save them… betrayal is still betrayal.”

Päivätär tilted her head thoughtfully. “But is it betrayal if she did it to spare them? To spare us? What if she believed she was doing the right thing, even if it meant sacrificing her own blood?”

“She says that,” Jeoseung Saja replied with narrowed eyes. “But redemption found through manipulation is still manipulation. And those who seek control often disguise it as mercy.”

Nohr gave a soft sigh, tapping the rim of their goblet. “That’s what makes her dangerous. She believes she’s right. And maybe she is… or maybe she just plays a longer game than the rest of us can see.”

Michael frowned, arms crossed as he leaned forward. “So what are we saying here? That she’s the villain?”

Nohr shook their head slowly. “No. She’s not the villain. Not yet. But she’s not the hero either. She’s a survivor. A strategist. And those kinds… they only show their hand when they’re ready for you to fold.”

Ukko grunted. “And what if one of her siblings didn’t stay trapped?”

Everyone went quiet.

Nohr’s eyes flicked back to the moving image of the galaxies devouring each other.

“That… would be very bad.”

Chapter 13: Farewell

Marigold sat behind her obsidian-glass desk, a licorice stick curling lazily around her fingers like a slow spell. The tower buzzed faintly around her, lights too bright, silence too complete. She hated the quiet. It gave her time to think.

“Oh, whatever shall we do with you?” she murmured, the words floating somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Jeoseung Saja is onto you. He knows something… and if he doesn’t outright know, he will. He always does.”

She took a bite, sharp teeth sinking into the candy with a soft snap. Her gaze drifted to the folder—plain, beige, unimposing. A relic of bureaucracy. Inside: a trail of hints, half-truths, and one very inconvenient blank.

A sibling. Uncontained.

Unaccounted for.

Marigold sighed and reached for the folder, her fingertips glowing faintly with heat.

“He’s such a rigid one,” she said. “Plays by the rules far too well.”

The folder caught fire in a slow, curling wave of white flame. No smoke. No ashes. Just erasure.

“Oh well. If he gets in the way, he’ll have to be dealt with. And reeducation won’t be on the table for him… I suspect.”

She smiled thinly and returned to her licorice.

“Oh, cousin… what should I do?” came a seething voice, oozing from the shadow pooled in the far corner of Marigold’s office. It slithered around the edges of her space like rot beneath fine wallpaper. “Shall I send my minions after him—and the others who watch over that Michael? We need the remaining pieces of the Heart to free the rest of us… the ones you so coldly locked away in the Gateway Realm.”

Marigold rolled her eyes and let her head tilt back in exasperated amusement. “Yes, yes, Nergal, I hear you. But honestly—what do you think would’ve happened if we did destroy this universe? Just hop along to the next one?” She laughed, sharp and golden, like a bell with a crack in it. “Do you have any idea how long it takes for a universe to reboot? Eons, darling. Eons. And it needs to be populated enough to be fun. You do remember fun, don’t you?”

The shadows hissed.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Who dares intrude upon your private time?” Nergal hissed, his shadow curling tighter around the room like smoke seeking an exit.

“No one should be,” Marigold said coolly, rising from her chair with deliberate grace. “All my meetings were rescheduled for the week.”

Another knock. Then a voice—flamboyant, gratingly cheerful.

“Ohhh, Director Marigold! I do believe I can be of assistance—to you, and whoever you’re whispering with in there.”

Marigold froze mid-step.

“Ankou,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling into something sour. “You little fiend.”

Then, smoothing her face into a mask of radiant charm, she opened the door slowly, letting the golden light spill out behind her like stage lighting.

“Oh, hello Ankou!” she cooed. “How lovely to see you, darling. Please, do come in.”

Ankou strolled in with his usual dramatic flair, his head tilted just slightly as his eyes swept the office. “I could’ve sworn I heard someone else in here with you, Director Marigold.”

Marigold’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, silly Ankou. There’s no one here during my private meditation hour.”

As she spoke, she clicked the lock shut behind them with a subtle finality.

Ankou’s eyes flicked toward the sound. “Hmm. Well. I could have sworn I heard someone. Couldn’t quite make out what was said, but I definitely caught the name Jeoseung Saja.”

Marigold turned her back on him smoothly, walking to her desk with feline grace. “Oh really, Ankou,” she said, voice cool as starlight.

“Yes,” Ankou replied, too brightly. “He and I just had lunch, actually. He was asking the most curious questions…”

“Director,” Ankou said, trying to keep his tone light, “may I ask why you locked the door?”

“Oh, silly Ankou,” Marigold purred, walking slowly back toward him. “Because you heard much too much… and now you’re playing coy. I can’t let that happen.” She tilted her head. “Now—does anyone know you were on your way to see me?”

“Director?! I swear I—”

Before he could finish, a cold, wet shadow snaked from the corner, wrapping around his throat.

Ankou’s fingers clawed at the crushing grip around his neck, his solid-black eyes wide, the glimmer of fear shining through as the light within them dimmed. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t beg. Could only grasp.

Nergal’s voice oozed from the darkness. “You talk too much, little ghost.”

Crack.

Ankou’s body slumped to the floor like discarded clothing, the faint chime of metal scattering across the tile.

“Oh, such a waste of a vessel,” Nergal muttered, his voice echoing as the shadow slithered over the corpse. “But I suppose I could take it for a ride… He does have a good fit for me.”

The shadow peeled itself from the walls like oil dripping in reverse, slithering into Ankou’s lifeless body. Bones popped. Joints twisted. For a moment, the corpse jerked violently, spasming like a puppet with too many strings.

Then it stilled.

Ankou’s eyes snapped open—burning with a dull, unnatural amber glow.

Nergal stretched his new fingers, rolling the shoulders with a grin that didn’t quite fit Ankou’s normally smug face. “Ah… tight fit. But workable. He kept himself well-oiled, I’ll give him that.”

Marigold crossed her arms, unfazed. “Just remember, they must think you’re him. Voice, posture, arrogance—Ankou was a greasy little weasel, but he had his uses.”

Nergal straightened, tilting his head and adjusting the tone. “Oh Marigold, you wound me.” He mimicked Ankou’s cadence perfectly. “I thought you adored my oily charm.”

Marigold chuckled darkly. “Good. Keep it up. If Jeoseung Saja catches a whiff of you, we’ll have more than just containment breaches to worry about.”

Nergal—wearing Ankou—smiled, his grin just a fraction too wide.

“Then let the games begin.”

Nergal, draped in Ankou’s form like a tailored suit, paused at the threshold of Marigold’s office. His eyes flickered, and with a subtle hand gesture, ink-black shadows peeled away from the corners of the room, silent and serpentine.

“Find the one named Michael,” he whispered, voice layered with echoes of something older and darker than even Ankou. “Bring him to the rendezvous point. Alone and alive, preferably. Almost alive and almost dead… works too.”

The minions slipped into the walls and floor like living stains, disappearing with unnatural speed, crawling through cracks, across ceilings, into forgotten spaces between this world and the next.

Marigold didn’t even glance as they vanished. She simply reached for another licorice stick, biting down with a crisp snap.

“Well then,” she purred, rising to quietly close the heavy door behind her once more, the latch clicking like a final judgment. “Aren’t we just all going to have a blast in due time?”

She returned to her seat, eyes settling on the enormous painting behind her desk—an ancient and brutal piece. A sea of twisted souls writhed beneath a red sky, lashed by great serpents made of chain and fire. The tormented forms seemed to shift ever so slightly, like they knew she was watching.

Marigold smiled softly. “Soon.”

——

Just outside the tavern nestled between realms, Selene the Swan snored softly atop a barrel, her alabaster feathers puffed like clouds against the cool air. Her glow pulsed gently with each sleepy breath, casting a faint halo on the tavern wall. She looked less like a guardian of divine realms and more like a celestial throw pillow in a nap coma.

A ripple of dark energy crackled across the ground like spilled ink, warping the soil and grass. Twelve shadowy minions emerged from the underbrush and cracks between stones—oozing forms stitched from nightmare, whispering curses in forgotten tongues.

They halted when they saw her.

“…Is that a glowing swan?”

“She’s napping.”

“…Do we eat it?”

Selene’s eye flicked open—first one, then the other. They glowed like twin moons.

Honk.

The shadows froze.

Selene rose slowly, stretching her wings with a shimmer of mythic light. Her glow intensified—not furious, not panicked, but radiating divine irritation. The kind a spirit guide reserves for being awakened five minutes before the best part of a dream.

One minion slinked forward cautiously, claws extended.

Selene squawked and flung herself forward, feathers trailing light. She smashed into the minion with an impossible force—POOF!—the creature vanished into black mist.

The others shrieked.

Another lunged at her in retaliation. Selene twisted midair, delivering a spinning divine roundhouse kick with her webbed foot. BOOM. The second was obliterated on impact, its essence scattering like burnt leaves.

But then things turned.

A third minion, larger and more cunning, caught her wing mid-turn with a blade of solid shadow. Selene cried out, flailing, feathers scattering like shooting stars. She crashed into the barrel she’d been sleeping on, dazed, one eye blinking unevenly.

The fourth leapt on her back. The fifth grabbed her throat with an inky tendril. The sixth laughed—a gurgling, teeth-grinding sound—as it conjured a black spear aimed at her heart.

Selene honked weakly, struggling under the weight of three shadow beings. Her glow flickered.

For a moment—just a breath—there was silence. Maybe this was it. Maybe the silly, glowing, eternal swan really would fall here, just outside a half-mythic tavern, mid-nap.

Then her wings snapped wide.

Light burst from her feathers in a blinding pulse, divine and ancient and furious. The kind of light that forgets mercy. The minions shrieked as the power seared through them—one turned to ash on her back, another melted into a shrieking puddle, and the last one flung itself screaming into the grass before evaporating mid-crawl.

The remaining six scrambled. Two squeezed through a cracked window, muttering curses. Another plunged down the chimney with a belch of smoke. Two flattened and slid beneath the tavern door like frightened tar. The last tried to escape over the roof, missed the ledge, bonked its head on a beam, and dissolved mid-whimper into the roof.

Selene wobbled once, gave a dignified shake of her feathers, and did a small spin in place like a ballerina.

She honked.

Then, with all the grace of a divine being who absolutely meant to win that nap-interrupting battle, she settled back onto her barrel, tucked her sore wing close, and rested her head beneath it.

The glow dimmed.

Hoooonk.

She was asleep again.

——

“What in the realms was that bright light—” Ukko began, eyes wide as a burst of celestial energy flashed through the tavern window, followed by a cacophony of crashing, flapping, and very aggressive honking.

“Probably Selene startled herself with a fart again,” Nohr muttered with a chuckle, just as six shadowy minions burst into the tavern, curling from windows, doorframes, and even the chimney like spilled nightmares.

The room chilled.

They fanned out, curling into threatening arcs around the group.

“Give us the one called Michael,” one hissed, breath like rotten parchment as it leaned close to Päivätär’s face, “and we’ll let you live long enough to regret it.”

Oofta! Get your stinky breath outta my face!” Päivätär snapped, shoving the shadowy minion back with a flare of golden light.

The creature reeled, then paused. It lifted a tendril—if you could call it that—toward what might be its face, inhaled, and grimaced.

“Ew,” it muttered, recoiling with genuine disgust.

“That one,” another hissed, pointing a jagged finger at Michael. “He has to be the one we want. If the others hadn’t been obliterated by that cursed swan, they’d confirm it.”

“Oh, I think not—whatever you are,” Ukko growled, stepping forward. His hammerphone crackled to life, arcs of lightning lacing across the runes as stormlight gathered at his fingertips.

“Yeah, he’s good here,” Dokkaebi added with a smirk, twirling his pipe as his eyes flicked from one shadow to the next. “We’re kind of in the middle of something, boys? Girls? …They?”

The shadows hissed, coiling tighter.

“Nohr,” Jeoseung Saja said coolly, stepping up beside them with his coat billowing from a conjured breeze. “Would you be a dear and get them the check?”

He held out one hand—Hangul characters erupted in a twisting, paper-laced tornado, swirling with celestial ink and bureaucratic menace.

As the swirling storm of Hangul flared in Jeoseung’s palm, the shadows struck.

They moved faster than thought—liquid blades of ink and malice.

One pierced the paper ward mid-air, scattering sacred text like dying fireflies. Another lunged for Michael, claws aimed for his chest.

Dokkaebi roared, diving in the way. His pipe cracked across one of their faces—if they had faces—before a shadow blade plunged clean through his side.

“Get your own human, you unwashed… blender noise of an exorcism…” he rasped, coughing out glowing embers.

Nohr shrieked and turned, calling on a wall of flame—but not fast enough. A tendril wrapped around their waist and flung them across the tavern. They slammed into a shelf of spectral liquor, shattering it and going limp beneath raining glass.

Michael shouted, running for them, but two minions cornered him. One bound his legs, the other his arms, hauling him up like cargo.

“Michael!” Päivätär’s voice cracked with panic, unleashing solar bolts that vaporized one spirit mid-pounce—but she took a slash to the leg in return, stumbling.

Jeoseung Saja launched a spell—binding glyphs scrawled in ancient reaper code that exploded across the floor. Shadows shrieked as the ground beneath them cracked, light bleeding from below like the realm itself was angry.

Ukko roared, lightning cascading from his hammerphone in wide arcs, incinerating one creature outright. He turned to blast the minions holding Michael—but they slipped into a tear in the air, dragging the boy with them into a void that stitched itself shut behind them.

“No!” Jeoseung snarled, reaching out with his hand—but it was too late.

A final tremor of dark energy rocked the tavern. Rafters groaned. A wall collapsed. The flames Nohr had conjured licked too far, catching a tapestry.

Päivätär dragged Nohr to safety. Jeoseung knelt beside Dokkaebi, who wheezed with each breath, blood and embers seeping from his side.

“You idiots,” Dokkaebi muttered with a crooked smile. “You were supposed to let me die after I paid off my bar tab…”

Jeoseung bowed his head.

Behind them, Ukko extinguished the last flame with a rainstorm from his hammer, but it was too late. Michael was gone.

Chapter 14: Reincarnation?

Michael writhed in his chair, arms and legs bound, mouth gagged. Panic surged as he looked around, trying to place where—or when—he was. Nothing made sense. The air buzzed with wrongness.

“Tut tut,” a voice chided from behind him.

“You’ve been very bad. Vanishing like that… consorting with gods… and then nosing around goblins?”

Marigold’s hand slid across Michael’s shoulder as she circled around him. She was dressed in crimson and black, a red blade pulsing at her hip like it had a heartbeat of its own. Her eyes sparkled with amusement—and threat.

“Cousin,” Nergal hissed, still wearing the stolen body of Ankou like a mocking disguise. “We need the rest of those Heart pieces to break the gates.”

Behind him, two of the shadow minions crept forward, crouching low like twisted beasts waiting for a command.

“Would you please take that body off? You look ridiculous,” Marigold snapped, spinning on her heel to face Nergal.

“Oh, come now, cousin,” Nergal purred, admiring himself in the mirror-like tile. “I was just getting used to the fit and feel. It would be such a shame to discard such a well-loved suit.”

Marigold sauntered over, drawing her blade with a casual flick. In one smooth motion, she carved a thin line across Ankou’s borrowed cheek. A bead of dark ichor bubbled to the surface.

“Oops,” she said with mock innocence. “Silly me. It’s damaged now. I guess you’ll have to take it off and throw it away.”

She cackled, the sound sharp and electric, before pivoting toward a massive wooden chest in the corner—its lid barely ajar, with mismatched limbs and twisted appendages spilling out like discarded dolls.

“Now,” she said, voice lilting with curiosity, “let’s see this other version of Michael—the clone meant to carry the rest of the Heart fragments. Where did we leave it?”

Marigold rummaged through the chest like a child digging through a box of old toys, flinging arms, legs, and unidentifiable limbs over her shoulder without a second glance. Some twitched. One giggled.

Meanwhile, Nergal stepped out of Ankou’s crumpled form like peeling off a second skin. With an absent-minded nudge, he kicked the empty shell over the edge of a ledge. It tumbled downward, vanishing into a swirling vortex of shadow and screams.

“Oh well,” he sighed. “It was a bit tight in certain areas anyway.”

He sauntered over to Michael, who still writhed helplessly in his restraints, sweat dripping down his face.

With a flourish, Nergal yanked Michael’s shirt open. “Now then,” he said cheerfully, flexing his fingers. “This is going to hurt. A lot. I’m not exactly trained in open heart surgery, but hey—what better time than now to experiment?”

“Oh, leave him be for now!” Marigold snapped, waving a hand at Nergal without looking back. “We need to get these three out of this body first!”

With surprising ease, she dragged a limp, armless version of Michael across the floor. Its legs scraped along the tile, leaving faint streaks of that same oily black substance. She dropped the clone at Nergal’s feet like a sack of rotting grain.

“Oh, you found him, cousin!” Nergal exclaimed with mock delight, placing his hands on his cheeks like a gleeful child. “He’s a bit tattered, though. Honestly, how did you treat your toys as a child?”

Marigold rolled her eyes with theatrical exhaustion. “Like they deserved,” she muttered, hoisting the clone upright and propping it against a chair directly across from the original Michael. The resemblance between them was uncanny, except this one was missing its arms, its mouth quivering in silent dread.

“Well then,” she said, licking her lips. “Let’s get these pieces out.”

She raised her crimson blade and plunged it into the clone’s chest—slowly, deliberately—carving a wide hole as if gutting a ripe fruit. No blood spilled. Just a thick, viscous black ooze that sizzled on contact with the air.

The clone writhed violently, then suddenly began to scream—a raw, inhuman sound of pain and confusion—as its remaining eye rolled in terror, darting around the room.

Nergal stepped forward with giddy anticipation, a shadowy tendril snaking out from his palm like a living eel. It slipped into the gaping hole in the clone’s chest, fishing around with wet, slurping sounds.

“Ah—there we are,” he purred, withdrawing the tendril with three glistening objects wrapped in its coils.

One was a warped VHS tape, its label smeared and unreadable, reels spinning slowly of their own accord.

Another resembled a musical key—delicate, metallic, and softly humming with a note no one could quite place.

The third looked like an ordinary human heart… except it beat with a rhythm not its own, pulsing as if it were remembering a life that never was.

“Oh yes,” Nergal cooed, cradling the pieces like sacred relics. “Here they are. The pieces of the soul’s fracture—each one fitting perfectly into the locks. Just as it was prophesied. Or maybe improvised. Who knows?”

He turned and sauntered to a strange control console embedded in the stone wall—six oddly-shaped slots, each carved from different materials: bone, crystal, rusted iron, obsidian, something fleshy, and something that looked uncomfortably like teeth.

With ritualistic glee, he slotted the three pieces into the matching holes.

Click.

Click.

Click.

A low hum began to rise beneath the floor, like a machine awakening from a long, hungry sleep.

As the gate mechanism thrummed to life with a haunting resonance, Michael screamed through his gag, thrashing against his restraints. Marigold tilted her head at him like a curious crow.

“Oh don’t worry,” she cooed. “You won’t miss the grand opening. You’ll be part of it.”

Darkness crept in at the corners of his vision—not from fainting, but from the shadows themselves pressing inward. Everything faded to black.

⸻

A single candle flickered in the center of the table, its flame trembling as if it knew the stakes. The tavern, once rowdy with chaotic myths and half-gods drinking and brawling, now sat in a hush of reverence and sorrow.

Päivätär stood at the edge of a shallow grave beneath the Whispering Tree, her radiant light dimmed to a soft gold. The roots had gently parted to allow the burial.

“He was loud, wild, and probably made half of this place flammable just by showing up,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “But he fought for Michael… until the very end.”

Jeoseung Saja knelt at the grave, pressing a strip of golden cloth—one of Dokkaebi’s old sashes—into the soil. “He deserved better,” he muttered. “We all did.”

Nohr, leaning on a blood-slicked staff, turned to the others. “They have him. And they’re already unlocking the gates.”

Ukko’s brows furrowed. “Then we don’t have time to mourn.”

“No,” Päivätär said, straightening. Her light began to intensify, her face hardening with purpose. “But we do have time to fight.”

A deep thrumming echoed in the distance, far below the tavern’s foundations. The sound of something ancient waking.

Jeoseung Saja stood, cloak billowing as if caught in a wind no one else could feel. “Then let’s raise hell to get him back.”

Marigold raised the crimson blade above Michael’s chest, its surface pulsing with malevolent energy. The cloned body slumped nearby, emptied of its stolen heart fragments. Michael’s eyes widened in panic, his muffled screams caught beneath the gag.

“Hold still,” Marigold purred. “This next bit is very delicate—don’t want to miss your heart.”

She smiled and began to drive the blade down—

BOOM.

The chamber doors exploded inward with a deafening crack, shards of ancient stone flinging through the air like shrapnel. Smoke and light flooded in as a wind howled unnaturally from beyond the threshold.

Marigold spun around with a snarl. “What now?!”

“No gods,” came a sharp voice from the smoke. “Just us.”

Päivätär stepped through first, radiant and furious, her gold-tinted armor flaring with ethereal heat. Nohr followed, eyes glowing deep violet, staff gripped like a spear. Jeoseung Saja and Ukko strode behind them, silent and grim, with flickers of divine power crawling over their shoulders like stormlight.

Marigold stepped back instinctively, blade lowering just slightly. “Oh. You lot.”

“I thought we killed that one,” Nergal muttered, eyeing Jeoseung Saja.

“You tried,” Jeoseung Saja said coldly. “Didn’t take.”

Ukko’s voice rumbled like thunder. “Step away from the boy, cousins.”

Marigold’s smirk returned, sharp and venomous. “Or what, storm god? You’ll strike us down? You never did have the stomach for it.”

Päivätär’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade. “We’re not here to trade barbs. We’re here to end this.”

“Oh, cousins, we just want my brothers and sisters to come back and play,” Marigold cooed, dragging the blade teasingly across Michael’s chest. A thin line of red welled up, seeping through his shirt. He flinched, his bound body trembling as muffled cries slipped past the gag.

“Stop that!” Päivätär shouted, fury blazing in her eyes. She hurled a bolt of sunfire magic at Marigold’s head.

Marigold caught it midair with her hand, the energy fizzing out like a sparkler in water. “How tiring,” she sighed, and with a flick of her fingers, she retaliated.

A wave of crimson and black erupted from her palm, slamming into Päivätär’s chest like a battering ram. The goddess was thrown backward, crashing to the stone floor, where the twisted energy pinned her down with crackling force. She writhed, trying to free herself, but the magic held fast, tendrils wrapping around her limbs like thorny vines.

Nohr stepped forward, staff glowing as a storm of runes swirled around them. “Let her go, Marigold. Now.”

Marigold tilted her head mockingly. “Make me.”

Ukko clenched his fists, electricity arcing along his arms. “You’re meddling with forces even you don’t understand, Marigold.”

“Oh, please. I was born in the dark. Molded by it. I know exactly what I’m doing.” Her eyes gleamed, her voice low and reverent. “And once we open that gate… everything broken will be made whole again.”

She turned back toward Michael, raising the blade once more. “Let’s finish the puzzle, shall we?”

Without warning, Nergal’s minions launched themselves at Ukko. Clawed tendrils flailed and slashed, catching his arms and shoulders, forcing him back. One blow struck with enough force to rip the hammerphone from his grip, sending it clattering across the stone floor into the shadows.

Ukko growled, lightning arcing around his fists as he fought to regain his ground, but the minions swarmed him, shrieking in distorted, broken voices.

Jeoseung Saja stepped forward, eyes narrowing behind his dark glasses. “So you two are here,” he said coldly, scanning the grotesque scene. “Where’s Ankou? Was he really part of your little plan… or just another pawn?”

Nergal turned, amusement twisting his borrowed features. “Oh, my little reaper,” he hissed, voice like poison through velvet. “Ankou was such a good suit. Wore him well. But he got damaged. Broken. Useless.” He grinned wide and cruel. “I had to throw him away. Do you miss your work husband?”

Jeoseung Saja froze, breath catching in his throat. “What?”

Nergal didn’t give him a moment to react. With a blur of motion, his tendrils lashed out and coiled around Jeoseung Saja, lifting him into the air. They wrapped around his arms, chest, and throat—squeezing tighter with each second.

Saja’s limbs twitched as the air wheezed from his lungs. His fingers clawed for his sword, but the tendrils kept constricting. He could feel his ribs strain—hear his bones creak.

“Do you feel that?” Nergal whispered, now face-to-face with him. “That’s what it feels like to be discarded.”

Nohr,” Marigold purred mockingly. “Still pretending you’re above it all?”

Nohr’s expression didn’t waver. Their violet eyes glowed like twin stars under strain, ancient and cold. “Marigold. We are ancient. We can solve this like civilized beings.”

Marigold let out an exaggerated yawn, her blade gleaming crimson-black in her hand. “Oh, sure. You celestial types always think age means wisdom. That just because you came first, you’re the strongest.”

She lunged forward with a shriek, blade slashing the air with vicious precision. Nohr met the first strike with their staff, sparks of magic cracking against steel. Blow after blow came down in a storm—Marigold’s fury driving her faster, harder—forcing Nohr back, inch by inch, toward the cold stone wall behind them.

Across the chamber, Ukko bellowed in rage. With a surge of strength, he swung his fists, crackling with thunder, and shattered one of Nergal’s minions into a burst of shadow and ichor.

But before he could rise fully, the second minion lunged from behind—its clawed mouth sinking into his shoulder. A sickening rip echoed through the room as it tore away a massive chunk of flesh.

Ukko dropped to his knees, lightning sputtering from his hands as blood soaked his tunic.

Michael’s breath came in ragged gasps, the line of blood across his chest still stinging where Marigold had traced her blade. His wrists were raw from struggling against the bindings, his mouth still gagged—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream.

But his fingers… they twitched. Just enough.

He reached into his jeans pocket, pain flaring through his ribs, and his hand brushed against the small, familiar shape. The bone dice. The ones Dokkaebi had handed him with a mischievous grin and a wink. “For luck,” he’d said.

Michael’s heart sank. This isn’t a game. I need a weapon. A miracle. Not… this.

Still, with trembling fingers, he pulled the dice from his pocket and let them fall from his palm.

They clattered to the stone floor.

Click, clack, clack.

The d4 landed first. Then the d6. The d8, d10, d12… the d20 spun longest, until it finally teetered to a halt.

Each die landed perfectly.

A six on the d6.

A twenty on the d20.

Every single face showed its highest possible number.

The air shifted—almost like a breath being drawn in by the world itself.

A low hum filled the chamber.

Marigold froze mid-swing. Nergal’s tendrils stuttered in place. Even the shadows recoiled slightly as the dice began to glow with an eerie, golden light laced with streaks of blue and red—Dokkaebi’s colors.

A loud, echoing HOOOOOOONK bellowed through the chamber—so loud it rattled the obsidian pillars and sent a tremor through the floor like a quake. The gates behind Marigold and Nergal shimmered, the dice still glowing fiercely with otherworldly energy.

Nergal, unfazed, let Jeoseung Saja’s crushed form slip from his tendrils. The limp reaper fell backward, vanishing into the swirling vortex without ceremony. “Join your husband, reaper,” Nergal sneered, his voice slick with mockery.

Marigold rolled her eyes and continued driving her assault against Nohr. She screamed with each strike, her blade wailing as it tore through the air. With a final cleave, she shattered Nohr’s staff like glass, sending them crashing into the wall, stunned.

“You think a swan will save you?” she spat, whirling around toward the sound. “Ha! Don’t make us laugh.”

Another HOOONK, louder this time, followed by the flapping of massive wings—glowing white with radiant threads of silver trailing from each beat. The light cut through the darkness like a blade.

From above, descending slowly in divine splendor, was Selene the Swan.

Feathers shimmered like falling stardust. Her eyes burned with ancient light—trickster, guide, guardian, chaos itself wrapped in feathers and fury.

“Surprise, witches,” she said, her voice both echoing and melodic, like a thousand swans honking in harmony.

She landed hard, wings flaring outward with a final crack of divine force, sending Nergal stumbling back and Marigold shielding her face.

“You rolled a natural 20,” Selene said, glancing at Michael with a sly grin. “Let’s play.”

Selene waddled right up to Michael, surprisingly calm amid the chaos, and with a gentle brush of her beak, the restraints around his wrists and ankles snapped off like brittle vines. The gag melted away like mist.

Michael gasped, rubbing his raw wrists, blinking up at her. “Wait—you can talk?! Since when?!”

Selene turned her glowing eyes toward him, deadpan. “Since always,” she said flatly. “I just don’t have a lot to say. Talking to mortals is exhausting.”

Before he could respond, the shadows thickened again as Nergal’s tendrils lashed toward them with a shriek of fury.

Selene turned without missing a beat, her wings flaring open wide. “Down, worm,” she snapped, swatting the dark appendages aside with a burst of radiant feathers. They hissed and crackled where they touched her light.

“Gotta say,” she muttered to herself, “I really hate those things.”

Nergal roared, his tendrils whirling like blades as he struck at Selene again and again. Each slash of shadow was met with bursts of blinding light from her wings, but even the radiant swan staggered back under the assault, feathers falling like embers.

“Michael,” Selene called, gritting her beak as she caught two tendrils in mid-air with her wings. “Could you be a dear and grab the pieces of your heart out of that device and—oh, I don’t know—put them back in your body?!”

Michael, already running to the console, skidded to a stop. “Uh—okay! I just— I don’t know how to do that!”

“Use your instincts! Or your emotions! Or some weird protagonist magic! I don’t care!” she snapped, sparks flying from her feathers as a tendril slashed her side. “Just hurry up before I become roast duck!”

Michael stared at the console—six slots, three of them glowing. The VHS tape, the musical key, and the heart-shaped heart pulsed faintly.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. Just… touch them? Eat them? Plug them in?” He reached for the VHS tape first, hesitating only a second before pulling it free.

As he did, a sharp jolt surged through his hand—memories flashed: a moment with his friends as kids watching cartoons, a cheap blanket fort, a feeling of safety.

His eyes welled. “This is mine…”

Michael dropped to a knee, clutching the VHS tape to his chest as the emotional surge rattled through his bones. Tears spilled freely as laughter, grief, and warmth all tumbled inside him. Slowly, he rose again, trembling but determined.

He reached out toward the musical key, fingers trembling, nearly brushing the glowing edge—

“NO!!!” Marigold screamed, hurling her blade like lightning.

The red-black weapon slammed through Michael’s hand, pinning it to the console.

He screamed—a raw, guttural cry that echoed through the chamber.

Blood sprayed across the ancient device. The console sparked. The heart pieces pulsed violently.

“Michael!” Päivätär cried from beneath the crushing magic holding her down.

Selene, gasping and ruffled, whipped her wings in a sweeping arc and cracked Nergal across the face with a furious honk. “Go away, you slimy cretin!”

With a shriek of anger and shadow, Nergal’s form was yanked away by unseen forces—vanishing into darkness like he’d been forcibly recalled.

Selene, limping slightly, stumbled toward Michael. “You’re not allowed to die. Not yet.”

Michael, breathing heavily, looked up at her with blood on his lips and fire in his eyes. “Good,” he rasped. “Because I’m not done yet.”

Marigold snarled, her blade now gone, but her fury unchecked. She lunged at Nohr with clawed, bare hands, slashing in a frenzy. “You will die like your brothers and sisters!” she screamed, eyes blazing with madness. “I will see my brothers and sisters free!!”

Nohr gritted their teeth, blood streaking their cheek, backing against the stone wall as Marigold’s nails tore through their robes and skin alike. Their violet eyes burned with defiance, but their limbs were faltering under the onslaught.

Across the chamber, Ukko let out a final roar, slamming his fist into the last shadow minion’s skull, shattering it like glass. Black ooze sprayed across his back, and he collapsed onto his chest, trembling, breath ragged.

He turned his head just enough to see Päivätär pinned beneath the magical force, and his heart clenched.

“Oh my sweet love…” Ukko rasped, blood bubbling from his lips. “This cannot be the end for us…”

Selene clamped her beak around the blade lodged in Michael’s hand. With a sharp tug, she yanked it free.

Michael screamed—raw and piercing—as the blade ripped through muscle and tendon, nearly severing his hand in two.

“I’m… I’m losing so much blood,” he gasped, swaying on his feet. “I’m feeling light-headed… woozy…”

He reached out instinctively, fumbling with his good hand, and collapsed forward—his fingers brushing the musical key. It thrummed with a resonant chord the moment he touched it, glowing with golden light before sinking into his chest.

Images flooded his mind in a flash: a child’s hands learning piano, the awkward fingers on guitar strings, the proud breath behind a saxophone, the thunder of drumsticks on practice pads. His body jerked slightly with the memory.

Selene waddled to his side, wings trembling as she checked his breathing. Still alive. Barely.

With a determined huff, she leaned over his mangled hand and began flapping her wings gently. A soft glow spread over his torn flesh, and slowly, inch by inch, the shredded skin began to stitch itself back together.

Michael, we need you to touch the last piece. Please,” Selene urged, nudging his trembling hand with her beak.

Michael coughed, a weak twitch shuddering through him. His skin was pale, sweat clinging to his brow. “I’m… so tired…”

Across the chamber, Nohr screamed in agony as Marigold drove her hand into their chest, grinning maniacally.

“Oh, what was that line?” she cackled. “Ah yes—KALI-MA!”

She twisted her wrist violently, and a dark pulse erupted from her palm.

Michael grasped the final heart piece.

A chime echoed across the chamber.

“Michael got a life!”

Badadadaaaahhh!

A pixelated glow flashed around him as his wounds healed, his body lifting upright with renewed strength.

Marigold froze mid-twist, her hand still inside Nohr’s chest. Her manic grin faded. “Huh. That’s… new. Welp. Guess I’ll go back to my day job—director of reeducation, was it?”

“I… don’t… think so,” Nohr growled through clenched teeth. With one final surge, they gripped a jagged shard of their broken staff and drove it into Marigold’s neck, plunging it straight down where her heart should’ve been.

Marigold shrieked. “Nooooo! This can’t be!!”

Her body cracked with light and crumbled into ash. Nohr collapsed behind her, their breath shallow.

The crimson magic pinning Päivätär shattered like glass, allowing her to scramble to Ukko’s side. She pressed her hands to his torn flesh, golden light flooding the wounds as she wept and whispered incantations.

Selene waddled over to Nohr, who had collapsed beside the ashes of Marigold. She nudged them gently, but Nohr placed a hand on her wing.

“No, Selene. It’s far too late for me, I fear,” Nohr murmured, their voice soft but resolute. “You must be the new tavernkeeper now. Guide them with laughter and warmth. I’ll rejoin my siblings in the cosmos.”

With a serene smile, their body dissolved into a cascade of stardust, glittering as it rose and vanished into the air.

Michael stood dumbfounded. “Wait. That’s it? That’s it?! No fanfare? No applause? Not even a restart screen?”

Selene looked at him, tilting her head. Ukko, limping forward and retrieving his hammerphone, let out a strained chuckle.

“Michael, this isn’t a video game or a movie. This is real life,” Ukko said, his voice low but kind. “But you do get one thing—another chance. You get to choose your time, your place, your second beginning. From here out, you get to live the life you wanted.”

Michael looked around at the ruins of the chamber, the stillness in the air, and then down at his own hands—whole again.

“I’d like to…” he said quietly, then paused, lost in the kaleidoscope of lives and dreams he had wandered through in his mind.

The crimson magic pinning Päivätär shattered like glass, allowing her to scramble to Ukko’s side. She pressed her hands to his torn flesh, golden light flooding the wounds as she wept and whispered incantations.

Selene waddled over to Nohr, who had collapsed beside the ashes of Marigold. She nudged them gently, but Nohr placed a hand on her wing.

“No, Selene. It’s far too late for me, I fear,” Nohr murmured, their voice soft but resolute. “You must be the new tavernkeeper now. Guide them with laughter and warmth. I’ll rejoin my siblings in the cosmos.”

With a serene smile, their body dissolved into a cascade of stardust, glittering as it rose and vanished into the air.

Michael stood dumbfounded. “Wait. That’s it? That’s it?! No fanfare? No applause? Not even a restart screen?”

Selene looked at him, tilting her head. Ukko, limping forward and retrieving his hammerphone, let out a strained chuckle.

“Michael, this isn’t a video game or a movie. This is real life,” Ukko said, his voice low but kind. “But you do get one thing—another chance. You get to choose your time, your place, your second beginning. From here out, you get to live the life you wanted.”

Michael looked around at the ruins of the chamber, the stillness in the air, and then down at his own hands—whole again.

“I’d like to…” he said quietly, then paused, lost in the kaleidoscope of lives and dreams he had wandered through in his mind.

Epilogue

Somewhere, in a quiet pocket of reality, there’s a tavern between the realms. The sign above the door is crooked. The stars blink in jars behind the bar. A swan waddles to the counter, flicks her feathers, and pours a drink that tastes like memory and possibility.

She hums a tune no one remembers and waits—for the next traveler lost between worlds.

And far away, a boy with a mended heart wakes up, takes a breath, and begins again.

Author’s Note

This story was more than just a tale of gods, ghosts, and swans. It was a piece of me.

I wrote this for the weird kids, the quiet ones, the queers, the ones who’ve been broken and patched themselves back together more times than they can count. I tried to reflect moments from my own youth, my identity, and my battles—woven in through memory fragments, pop culture references, and a deeply nerdy heart that grew up alongside fantasy, sci-fi, and mythology.

As someone living with end-stage kidney disease, celiac, type 2 diabetes, and vision loss, writing this was not easy. But it was necessary. It was proof that despite pain, despite depression, despite everything—I can still create. I can still matter. And so can you.

To everyone in the LGBTQIA+ community, to my fellow disabled and chronically ill warriors, to anyone who’s ever felt like the world forgot them: this one’s for you.

Thank you for reading.

Stay weird. Stay soft. Stay fighting.

— Michael James Maattanen