A word, a shape, an idea that slips through the mind, but when you reach for it––gone. It isn't something you can hold. It's slippery, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. You think you've grasped it, that maybe you understand, but the moment you try to pin it down, it vanishes.
No, not vanishes. It transforms, shifts into something else entirely. A reason becomes a lie, a dream becomes a burden, and a burden becomes… nothing. But isn't that what it is? The endless chase after something that should define you?
But if this thing is meant to define, then why does it feel like it escapes every time you come close? Like a phantom just out of reach. Something more abstract than real. Or maybe… maybe it's real, but only for a moment. The second you claim it, it loses its shape, and you realize it was never yours to begin with.
It belonged to someone else.
But how could that be? It's yours, isn't it? It has to be. But no, the thought persists, creeping into the back of your mind––what if this thing, this idea you've built your life around, wasn't yours at all? What if you borrowed it, unknowingly, from something larger? A person, a system, a story.
But then, who are you without it? If it is borrowed, if it can be taken, then what's left of you? Identity? But identity is tied to this, isn't it? No, wait––identity is this, or maybe it's the other way around.
The self is shaped by what you think you're meant to do, but if that shifts then what does that leave you? A blank? A hollow shell? No, that's too simple, too neat. It's more like… a shadow. An echo of something that was once whole, but now fractured. Broken pieces trying to fit into a puzzle that's constantly changing shape.
It's maddening, isn't it? To think that this idea could be so fluid, so unreliable. Yet people chase it, as if without it, they'll drown.
But that's the contradiction, isn't it? It's supposed to save you, to guide you, but in reality, it just pulls you under. It makes you drown in yourself, in your failures, in the endless question of "what now?"
Maybe, in the beginning, you were something, but that was before you needed to be something.
Do you see the trap now? It makes you need it, forces you to shape yourself around it, and then, when it's gone––because it always goes––it leaves nothing behind but questions.
What was it all for? What were you for? Were you ever really more than the roles you played? No, no, that can't be right. But then why does it feel like that's all you are? A series of roles, a collection of moments trying to form a coherent story.
You chase it because without it, you'd unravel. But the cruel irony is, chasing it only makes you unravel faster. You run, and run, and run, thinking that you're getting closer, but the truth is––you're only losing more of yourself. And when you stop, when you finally stop, what's left?
A hollow name. A title without meaning. A person without a path.
So, what does it mean, then? Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it was always supposed to mean nothing. Or maybe that's just what you tell yourself to keep from losing the last bit of you that hasn't disappeared into the endless, gnawing void of questions.
And yet, despite it all, you keep searching. Because what else can you do?
No, that's not quite right.
Just forget it.
Mason paused, his thoughts scattering, drifting away with no sense of direction. His eyes blinked slowly, the world around him fading into something distant, hazy. He could see stars, or at least, he thought he did. Bright pinpricks of light danced at the edge of his vision, weaving in and out of strange shapes, abstract ideas that didn't belong.
Wasn't there… something? Something he was supposed to worry about?
He exhaled, the weight of a forgotten thought pressing down on him, a nagging sense of urgency that kept flickering in and out, but never fully taking shape. His chest felt tight, like he was waiting for something, but what? What was it?
That's right.
I'm dying aren't I?
Mason's vision snapped back into reality. The familiar circular chamber he had been in all this time seemed to close in around him, the cold stone walls looming with an unsettling weight. His heart pounded, heavy and uneven, matching the sickening throb in his chest.
He pressed a trembling hand to the blade—a wetness oozed between his fingers, the blood sluggishly flowing from the gash the knife had left. The blade had pierced deep.
His mind swam in a haze of pain and confusion, his body refusing to cooperate, but even through the fog, he could hear it—the soft, measured breathing of the woman behind him.
Her.
Slumped against the hard floor, Mason forced himself to remain still. His eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow, he could feel the presence behind him. The woman—no, the dangerously attractive soldier—watched him.
Her blade had nearly ended him, but she didn't move. Not yet. Perhaps she was waiting for something, or maybe she was savoring the moment, like a predator observing its prey's final twitching breaths.
Her gaze burned into his back as she pressed forward. Mason's heart raced, but he kept his body limp, his mind calculating. He had no intention of dying here. Not like this. Not on the first level.
Slowly, he tensed his muscles, preparing himself. His hands tingled with the faint heat of the black flames as he reached for the Astral of Death within him. His heart pounded harder, the fire coursing through his veins, even as his body screamed in protest.
Just a little more.
The woman shifted, her boots barely making a sound as she stepped closer.
Just a little closer...
And then—she moved.
That was it.
In an instant, Mason spun, his body twisting violently as he unleashed the flames, pouring the energy into his legs and torso. The motion was so quick, so sudden, the air cracked as he moved. He aimed his strike directly at her, his fists blazing with dark fire.
But at the last second, she braced.
Her arm came up to block his strike, her eyes meeting his with a calm, almost playful look. Mason's fist collided with her forearm, but instead of toppling her, she absorbed the blow, skidding back across the floor. Yet, she remained upright, barely fazed.
Mason's blood boiled. He wouldn't let this woman, no matter how skilled or beautiful, stand in his way. With a snarl, he grabbed the hilt of the knife still buried in his chest, the metal slick with his own blood.
His fingers tightened around it, and without hesitation, he yanked it free. Pain flared, sharp and biting, but Mason grit his teeth, refusing to show weakness. He held the bloodied blade aloft, his eyes locked on her.
Mason: I'm not done yet y'know! I don't care how beautiful you are—I'm not holding back! I'll fight my way out of here! You think some pretty face and a fancy knife can take me down? Do you have any idea who you're dealing with here? I've survived worse than this, way worse! I'm the kind of idiot who burns his toast every morning and still eats it because who's got time to make another? I've fallen asleep in the middle of class with a pen in my hand and woke up with my homework stabbed through!
He could see her blinking, completely bewildered by his rambling, but he wasn't stopping now.
Mason: You think this is where I stop? Here? In some creepy base in the middle of nowhere? No way! I've been through too much crap for it to end like this! I've had teachers throw books at my head because I spaced out mid-lecture! I've been chased by stray dogs more times than I can count! Do you know what it's like to be relentlessly pursued by angry geese? Do you?! I don't care if you've got the looks of a goddess and the attitude of a stone-cold killer, I'm not going down without a fight! You can keep your knives, your smug smile, and whatever else you're hiding under that armor, but let me tell you something—
He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes narrowing as the words tumbled out before his brain could catch up.
Mason: —If you think I'm backing down, I'll fight you until... until the moon crashes into the sea and... wait, no, I meant the stars, and…
The woman blinked, her confusion melting into open laughter. It started as a chuckle, but soon enough, she was laughing aloud, her voice ringing through the chamber.
Mason froze, blinking rapidly. He was momentarily stunned by the sound of her laughter, but then it hit him. His brain lagged behind his own mouth, the words tumbling out like a broken faucet.
Why can't I think straight?
Woman: So fiery. But don't you think you should at least let me explain before making such bold declarations?
Mason: Like hell I'm giving you the chance!
With a roar, he ignited his fists and feet, the black flames blazing around him, wrapping his body in a deadly aura. He lunged at her, each punch filled with more power than the last, the flames crackling through the air with every strike. He didn't hold back—
But the woman was fast—faster than anyone he had fought before. Her body moved like water, effortlessly dodging his blows. Each time his fist came close, she slipped just out of reach.
She pulled a second knife from her armor, the gleaming blade catching the dim light of the chamber, and with a swift motion, she countered. Mason dodged the first few strikes, his mind working in overdrive, but something was wrong.
His body wasn't keeping up. He should have been able to dodge her strikes with ease, but his limbs felt sluggish, his movements delayed by just a fraction of a second.
Slash.
A burning pain tore across his arm, then another across his thigh. Small cuts, but enough to make him falter. He gritted his teeth. Inside his mind, the Astral of Death chuckled.
And that voice. That damn voice.
You're not helping!
But the laughter only grew louder, more sinister. His body wouldn't listen, his limbs not responding the way they should. His mind felt foggy, his thoughts scattered. Something was wrong.
The woman darted in for another strike, her knife flashing toward him, and Mason barely managed to sidestep. But his vision blurred, and the pieces fell into place. The sluggishness. The disconnect between his mind and body. The nonstop laughter. The knife wound.
The knife.…?
Of course. The blade hadn't just pierced his flesh—it had delivered something else, something slowing him down. The Astral's laughter echoed again, louder this time, feeding off his pain.
He wasn't going to win like this. Not in a straight fight.
Desperation clawed at the edges of his mind. He needed to change the game. His eyes flicked to the ground beneath his feet, and in an instant, he slammed his foot down, drawing the maximum output of flames his body could handle.
The stone floor cracked under the force, sending a tremor through the chamber. The woman's eyes widened as she staggered, momentarily off balance.
That was all Mason needed.
Without wasting another second, Mason turned and ran.
He blasted through the door, smashing it to pieces with a surge of black flames, and sprinted down the hallway, his mind racing faster than his legs could carry him.
He had to get away. He couldn't win this fight—not in his current state. Not while that damn poison was coursing through his veins.
Mason sprinted down the endless corridors, delirious, his vision clouded with stars that blinked and swirled, shimmering at the edges of his sight.
Stars?
No. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but they only grew brighter, streaking past him like shooting stars. Something wasn't right.
The poison wasn't the only thing tearing him apart—he was bleeding out.
He glanced down at his chest, the gaping wound still pouring blood. Too much blood.
I'll die like this.
Without thinking, without hesitation, Mason gritted his teeth and slammed his hand against the wound, summoning the Astral of Death again, this time forcing it to flare against his own body. Black flames ignited in his palm, burning with a vicious intensity as he pressed the fire into his chest, trying to cauterize the wound.
Mason: AAAHHHHH!
The scream tore through him, louder than the pain itself. His vision flashed white with agony as the flames seared his skin, sealing the wound, but the shock of it knocked him to his knees. His body convulsed, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as he slumped to the ground, gasping for air.
More laughter.
Mason's head swam, the world fading in and out of focus. He couldn't stay down. He couldn't let her catch up. He had to move.
Through sheer force of will, he staggered to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him like they could collapse at any second. Behind him, he heard it—the unmistakable sound of her footsteps, closing in.
Calm. Steady. She wasn't rushing. She didn't need to.
She knew he was already finished.
Mason forced himself forward, sprinting blindly through the halls, the walls around him twisting into something incomprehensible.
Sirens. Flashing lights. Were they real? He wasn't sure. The world felt wrong. He couldn't see the corridors anymore—just space. An endless expanse of stars and galaxies, swirling and dancing before his eyes.
Am I... floating?
In front of him, the stars seemed to shimmer, moving toward him in clusters. Closer. Closer. Their light flickered, and for a moment, Mason thought he was being drawn into the cosmos, until—
Guns.
The stars—they were drawing guns.
Stars don't carry guns.
He blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with reality. Soldiers stood before him, their weapons raised, their faces startled by the speed at which he approached. No.
Mason pushed harder, his legs burning with the effort as he blitzed past them. His vision blurred, the stars mixing with the flashing lights as more soldiers joined the pursuit. He couldn't see the hallways anymore, just endless space, endless stars.
His thoughts were tangled, rambling, incomprehensible strings of words and images that made no sense. He was losing himself, his mind fracturing under the weight of it all. He couldn't win. Not like this.
Mason gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to scream.
Shut up. Just shut up.
Desperate, he activated the Astral of Death again, pouring the last of his strength into his feet. He stomped, hard, sending a shockwave through the ground. The stone floor cracked beneath him, a deep crater forming as the tremor rattled the walls and sent the soldiers stumbling.
But he couldn't keep this up.
His body was breaking down, the poison eating away at him, slowing his movements, clouding his vision. He had to stop.
Finally, Mason turned and ducked into a side room—an artillery room, filled with crates and weaponry. The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, he felt a fleeting sense of safety. He staggered to the far wall, his legs giving out beneath him as he slumped to the ground, gasping for breath.
The stars and galaxies still danced in front of his eyes, but he forced himself to ignore them. Focus.
His chest heaved, the burn of the wound still fresh, but he wasn't dead. Not yet.
Death continued to laugh inside his mind, a low, cruel sound that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.
Shut up.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the stars out of his mind, trying to pull together the last threads of his consciousness. He couldn't let it end like this.
He couldn't think straight. He couldn't fight. But he needed a plan. Anything to get him out of this alive.
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Rachel's footsteps boomed through the hallway, each one heavier with growing irritation. This ridiculous chase—it was becoming tiresome. Annoying, really. She had already closed in on the boy, only for him to slip away like a wounded animal clinging to the last vestiges of life? She couldn't decide whether to pity him or be amused by his sheer, dumb persistence.
Mason Heartson.
The name felt like a joke, something spoken with far too much importance for someone so utterly pathetic. She should've been done with this by now. She was tired of his stupid game of tag, tired of watching him flail around.
But then the tremor came, shaking the floor beneath her feet. Rachel paused, her sharp eyes narrowing as the dust settled. Up ahead, she saw them—the soldiers, disoriented and stumbling from Mason's desperate attack. They looked dazed, like helpless sheep who had wandered into the path of a predator.
Her lip curled in disgust.
Pathetic. Every single one of them.
She strode toward them, her anger simmering.
Soldiers. Trained men. Weaklings.
They had one job—one simple task—and they had failed. Worse than failure, they looked lost, blinking stupidly at the cracks in the ground like they couldn't even understand what had just happened.
Tools for someone else. Too blind to even know how easily they could be replaced.
Blind devotion, mindless obedience—these were things she could never respect. They were hollow, soulless traits.
Rachel's fingers twitched. The soldiers looked up at her, still trying to recover from Mason's half-hearted attack.
They didn't even see it coming.
In one smooth motion, Rachel reached for the knife hidden beneath her armor. She moved faster than they could register—faster than thought itself.
One throat slit.
Then another.
And another.
No room for weakness.
Each soldier fell soundlessly to the floor, blood pooling around them. Her anger simmered down as she wiped the blade clean, watching their lifeless bodies with cold satisfaction. That was better. Much better. Silence was always preferable to incompetence.
Stepping over the crater Mason had left in the ground, Rachel continued forward.
She knew. She could feel it in her bones. Mason was at his limit—his body was giving out, his mind already slipping into delirium. That last attack had drained him. She could taste his desperation in the air, the scent of blood lingering, leading her right to him.
Her eyes traced the obvious trail of blood smeared across the floor.
Amateur.
It led to a nearby artillery room, the door firmly shut. She smiled—a disappointed smile, really.
Illusions belong to me, Mason.
The audacity of him, trying to pull something so obvious. She reached for the door handle, turning it slowly, savoring the moment. Mason Heartson, backed into a corner, broken and desperate. She raised her knife, ready to find him slumped and defeated.
But as the door creaked open, the room was empty.
Rachel frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the area. No one. No Mason. Her mind raced, flickers of realization coming to her. Tricked. Somehow, the boy had managed to slip out again. Her irritation flared, her body tense, but she forced herself to remain calm. He couldn't have gone far.
As she turned to inspect the room one last time—
SLAM!
The door crashed shut behind her, and before Rachel could react, something heavy collided with her from behind. A body. Her mind registered the weight, the familiar scent of blood. Mason. The boy had tackled her, his arms wrapping around her throat in a clumsy, desperate attempt to choke her. She let out a sharp grunt as they hit the floor, the impact jarring her bones.
His hands tightened around her neck, his breath ragged, foaming at the mouth. Bloodshot eyes, glazed with madness, stared down at her.
Mason: G-give me... it... the... antido—... whatever you... I need... give it...!
His voice was a mess of broken words, half-formed thoughts, desperation leaking from every syllable. His grip around her throat tightened, his entire body trembling with the effort. But Rachel... she laughed.
Rachel: You're... really pathetic, aren't you?
She spat the words at him, her smile widening even as his hands squeezed tighter.
Rachel: If you want the antidote, you're gonna have to take those hands off me first.
Mason's grip faltered for a second, his fogged mind trying to comprehend her words. He didn't listen. His grip tightened again, harder this time, enough to make her choke. But she still laughed, her voice strained but mocking.
Her chest burned as he pressed down harder, the air leaving her lungs, but she could see it in his eyes—he didn't understand. He wasn't thinking. He wasn't capable of thinking.
And then it hit her—he might actually kill her. He was delirious, out of control, and if he squeezed any harder, she'd be dead before he even realized what he'd done.
Dammit.
With the last of her strength, she pressed her hand to the wound on his chest, shoving her fingers deep into the slightly open gash. Mason let out a strangled cry of pain, his grip loosening as he slumped, his body trembling from the shock. He fell back, gasping.
Rachel rolled away, her throat raw as she gulped down air, her body trembling with a mix of relief and irritation. That idiot—he had almost done it. Almost killed her by mistake. She backed away, glaring at the boy who now lay on the floor, barely able to move.
Mason tried to stand, his body shaking violently, but his strength was gone. He collapsed again, his breath ragged, his eyes wild.
Before Rachel could decide what to do next, the door burst open. Three soldiers rushed in, their guns raised, aiming straight at Mason.
But Rachel... she didn't even hesitate.
Without a second thought, her hand darted into her armor, pulling out a sleek pistol.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots, clean and precise, and the soldiers dropped to the ground, dead before they could react.
Mason stared in disbelief, his eyes wide as he watched the bodies fall.
Rachel sneered, her eyes narrowing in annoyance as she stepped over the corpses.
Rachel: Enough of the interruptions.
She glared down at Mason, her voice cold, commanding.
Rachel: My turn to talk.
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Mason was dead. He was sure of it. Everything felt cold, distant, like he had already crossed some line he couldn't come back from. The Moon... shimmering and beautiful, had beaten him. Every step of the way.
It wasn't stronger than him—physically, sure. Mason knew, deep down, that if it came to it, he could beat The Moon in a 1-on-1 fight. He was certain of that. But The Moon hadn't fought fair. It had tricked him, deceived him. The poison... damn poison.
Poisoned. That's it. So annoying. Stupid moon.
He braced himself for death. Wait. No. They couldn't kill him. He was needed for something, wasn't he? Something important... but what was it again? His thoughts scrambled around like mismatched puzzle pieces.
Something... something big. What was it?
But then The Moon... stopped. It hovered there, looming above him, staring down at his motionless body. Mason lay on his back, unable to move his muscles, his limbs limp, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. The Moon stared. Silent. Watching.
Why are you looking at me...? Why won't you move...?
For what felt like an eternity, the moon stared. Then, it spoke.
The Moon: Tetrodotoxin, that's what's in your veins right now.
Mason blinked slowly, his eyes glassy, confused. The words hit him like static, fuzzing around the edges of his brain. What the hell was it talking about?
The Moon stared at Mason, annoyed, rolling it's eyes.
The Moon: Pufferfish toxin.
Puffer... fish? What do pufferfish have to do with the moon? And why... why was there a river? Wasn't there supposed to be a river? No... wait. Poison.
Right.
He'd been poisoned.
Did he eat a pufferfish? None of this made sense.
But the moon ignored his disjointed thoughts. It spoke again, its voice flat, like it was explaining something obvious to a child.
The Moon: The toxin wasn't supposed to stay in your system this long. But... well, you chose to run instead of talk, and now here we are.
It's words slithered into his head, but they didn't settle right. Run? Talk? He wasn't running. Wait. He was. Why was he running again? The pieces wouldn't fit together, no matter how hard he tried to focus.
The Moon: You have minutes left, so I'll be quick. You have a choice to make.
Mason spat, his mouth dry, but somehow managing to find enough strength to let his frustration bubble up. He didn't want anything from the moon. It lied.
Mason: I don't... want anything from you... anymore... tricky... moon...
The Moon rolled it's eyes, clearly annoyed but unmoved by his nonsense.
The Moon: Fine. Let me get to the point.
It's voice droned on, explaining things Mason couldn't quite grasp. Something about Obsidian. Something about the organization that had captured him. Their goal—ending the world.
Mason blinked. Ending the world? What did that even mean? The words drifted in and out of focus as The Moon continued talking. It explained more, it's tone as casual as if it were explaining the weather.
The Moon: They need the Astral of Death inside you to do it.
Astral... of Death... inside... me...?
The pieces didn't click, but he nodded absently, feeling like he was supposed to understand.
Rachel went on. Rachel Parker, she said her name was. Vice captain for Obsidian. She didn't want to end the world. No, she was against that sort of thing. Naturally. She had her own agenda. She wanted out. Wanted to use him to get out. Or something like that.
Out?
Mason: W-why... kill me... then...? Why... all this...?
His words barely formed, but Rachel didn't seem to care.
Rachel: I needed to make sure you didn't get any ideas about immobilizing me. Plus, my commanding captain was watching, so I had to keep up appearances. But... well, I killed a bunch of soldiers, so he's probably figured it out by now. What a big waste of time.
Her words blurred together into a mess of generals, divisions, and Obsidian hierarchy. Mason's brain just couldn't keep up. What was she talking about?
But then, a new question wormed its way through the fog.
Mason: Why... me...? Why... Astral... of Death... choose... me...?
He expected a grand answer, something that would explain everything, something that would give him the clarity he so desperately needed.
But Rachel's eyes were cold. Her voice flat, matter-of-fact.
Rachel: You have maybe minutes left. You need to decide now.
Mason tried to think, but his brain wouldn't cooperate. His body felt heavy, the poison dragging him down. But... Rachel. Maybe she could help him escape.
He thought of the poison, of the minutes ticking away, of death creeping closer. He didn't want to die. Not yet. Not like this. If she was offering him a way out, maybe... maybe he should take it.
Help... her... maybe... don't die...
He nodded, his mind barely holding on. He would trust her, at least for now. He had no other choice.
Mason: Fine... help me...
Rachel didn't waste time. She reached into her belt and pulled out a syringe, jabbing it into his arm. The antidote flowed into his veins, cold and sharp.
His vision swam, but he forced himself to stay awake, to stay conscious. He had one more question.
Mason: Why... me...?
Rachel sighed, her face softening—if only for a moment.
Rachel: You think you were chosen for something greater. That this... this power was some gift, something meant for you.
Mason blinked, his mind struggling to keep up with her words. The poison still fogged his thoughts, but he could hear her clearly. Too clearly.
Rachel: But that's the lie. The lie you tell yourself when you want to believe you matter.
She paused, her eyes narrowing as she crouched down to look at him more closely, her tone now cold, deliberate.
Rachel: You're not special. You never were. You weren't chosen, you were marked. From the moment you were born, they had already decided what you'd be. Everything—every choice, every failure, every scrap of hope you've ever clung to—it's all been leading you here. Like a lamb led to slaughter. You know that expression right?
Rachel watched him, her gaze cool, detached. This was the truth. She was laying it bare, stripping him down to nothing.
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if savoring the moment before she delivered the final blow.
Rachel: And do you know who led the way? Who made sure you'd end up here? It wasn't some faceless enemy..
Rachel: It was your parents. Your own flesh and blood. Gabrielle and Samuel Heartson. Obsidian's most devout soldiers.
He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but no words came out. The room spun, and darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.
And then, everything went black.