Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[REVERIE ADMINISTRATION, INTERNAL LOG — ACCESS LEVEL: ███ ]

Dreamnode Codename: Veil of Broken Stars

Node classification: ███-class

Containment Status: Partial Neutralization

Location: Aideen Park, Golden Hour Neighborhood, Penacony

The mini concert is in full swing—partygoers shuffle around, plastic cups in hand, voices loud and slurred over the cheap pop music blaring from the makeshift stage. The three performers dressed in glittery formalwear sing, their smiles a little too wide to be fully sincere.

Kids dart between the crowd, laughing as they dodge tall legs and spilled drinks. A few adults hover near the line of slot machines and spinning wheels, eyes glazed over and vacant, caught in the endless hope of a long-awaited win.

The air smells of booze and burnt sugar.

You wrinkle your nose as you scan the crowd, fingers tightening around your own plastic cup filled with lukewarm wine. Someone bumps into your shoulder, muttering a curse under their breath without even looking at you.

You swallow the urge to snap back at the person.

You’re already regretting coming here.

Sometimes, you wish you were less sociable. Or at least, better at saying no to your coworkers. Then maybe you wouldn’t be stuck at this loud, overcrowded event, waiting for them to show up while strangers push past you and the music drills into your skull.

A group of partygoers staggers past you, clutching their stomachs, faces pale and slick with sweat. One doubles over, dry heaving into a gutter.

You frown.

It’s not unusual for people to overdo it at these small-scale neighborhood carnivals, especially in Penacony, where constant celebration is practically civic duty. But… there’s something off. For a moment, the sick person doesn’t look merely drunk or high. He looks drained—skin waxy, eyes glassy, complexions too feverish.

You glance towards the stage.

The musicians keep playing, keep smiling. Nearby, clusters of small Sweet Dreams Soda statues burst in timed fireworks, gold, pink and emerald sparks fizzling through the air.

The Ferris wheel behind the stage and its towering frame twists unnaturally, its metal warped at the top where it had nearly bucked months ago. The city officials never really fixed it, they just closed the area for a few days, slapped a fresh coat of neon paint over the steel, and called it good enough.

Of course, typical of Penacony officials. Polish the surface, but ignore the deep-rooted cracks underneath.

A shiver crawls down your spine.

You don’t know why, but something feels… weird. Inexplicably off.

You just want to leave, crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head and lose yourself in yet another hours-long binge scroll through Lucid Walkers , reading threads about urban legend like they’re fairytale bedtime stories.

But despite every single warning bell ringing in your head, you decide to stay.

You tip back your cup, downing the rest of the wine in one go. It’s cheap, sour-tasting, but it dulls the nerves rattling in your chest, if only for a second.

Your coworkers are nowhere to be seen. Your messages sit unanswered, unread. Typical. You sigh and head for one of the drinks booths, deciding you might as well grab another drink if you’re going to be stuck waiting.

The moment you step in line, the hairs on your arms prickle, like static crawling across your skin. You shift uncomfortably, glancing around. No one looks fazed.

You shake your head, trying to will the feeling away.

The band starts a new song.

You recognize it almost immediately—one of your coworkers at the office played it on a loop the moment it came out, to the point you could probably recite the lyrics in your sleep.

But… the singer never opens their mouth.

Frowning, you turn towards the stage.

The band is gone.

Their instruments float in mid-air. The guitar strums itself gently, the keys of the piano press down one by one, playing perfectly in sync. You blink. And blink again. But the scene doesn’t change.

No one else notices.

The crowd continues to cheer, clap, to sway with the rhythm of the music. Like everything is normal, like they don’t see the empty stage, the floating instruments.

You step out of the line, cutting through the mass of people, heading straight to the edge of the plaza and the nearest exit. Coworkers be damned, you’ll find an excuse later.

You’re barely a few steps away from the exit when a sharp, screeching sound cuts through the square.

The ground lurched beneath you. You stumble, crashing hard onto the pavement.

Around you, the air shimmers. The scent hits you next—cloying sweet, like rotting candy. It clings to the back of your throat, thick and suffocating.

Close your eyes. Damn it, damn it, close your eyes and just run . You scream at yourself, but your body refuses to listen.

Something compels you to look back.

Your limbs feel heavy, sluggish, almost like you’re moving underwater. Still, you turn; your gaze locks onto the center of Aideen Park.

Above the stage, the sky splits open.

A hole slowly unfurls. It’s black, so dark it feels wrong, like it’s swallowing every scrap of light around it. The edges pulse faintly, stretching wider and wider, devouring the dusky horizon.

Your throat tightens. You want to scream… but you can’t even breathe.

The music distorts. Somewhere in the crowd, people finally notice the anomaly. The first to see it collapse to the ground, clutching their heads, their screams sharp and panicked, yet lost beneath the glitching song.

No one moves. No one can.

Your heart slams against your chest. Your vision tilts sideways. Nausea churns in your gut, and bile rises to the back of your mouth. You choke it back down, barely.

This feels like a nightmare.

You watch as a few people stand. And it’s the way they move that makes your skin crawl—their limbs hang too loose, their bodies seem almost weightless, like puppets dangling on invisible strings. They stagger towards the stage, eye glossy, jaws slack.

More follow.

Others crumple to the ground, their spines bending at impossible angles as they rise.

The music slows. The instruments settle gently to the ground, strings and keys vibrating with the last notes of the song.

And then… everyone starts walking.

Your own legs move before you can stop them. Gravity seems to slip away, becoming a mere concept—you drift towards the stage, one step, two steps, a third, and then a fourth.

Stop, stop, please. Look away, c’mon, close your eyes.

But your eyes stay open, and your limbs keep moving.

You’re trapped, completely helpless. Like a character in a video game, forced to watch from behind the glass panel as someone— something —pulls the strings.

The first person to reach the stage is the man who brushed past you earlier. His friends follow, a few steps behind him.

Oh, if you could only control your body, even just a tiny bit, you’d scream. You’d cry. You’d drop to your knees, begging and pleading for his nightmare to stop.

But all you can do is watch, again and again.

His body doesn’t disintegrate; it unravels . It starts at his legs—his skin flickers and warps into pure static. The effect creeps upwards. His torso, his arms, his head, each part distorts, breaking apart into buzzing fragments of noise.

The static hum grows louder.

And then it folds in on itself. With a sickening pop , the man is gone.

No trace of him left; no body, no blood. Just empty space where he once stood.

No one reacts.

They just keep walking, slow but steady.

Stop, stop. STOP. Your mind screams the word, over and over. Please, stop this.

Your legs continue to carry you over, closer to the stage, closer to the growing tear in the sky. Closer to where you will too, just as the rest, blink out of existence.

Somehow, maybe from the sheer, suffocating fear, you manage to cry.

The tears burn as they leave your eyes, heavy, like molten metal forcing its way down your cheeks. But the moment they fall, they float, suspended in the air like tiny glass beads.

“November Foxtrot Seven, contact with Dreamnode confirmed. Over.”

A voice cuts behind you, warped. You want to turn, to look at anything that isn’t this nightmare unraveling in front of you.

“India Echo Four, contact with Dreamnode also confirmed. Over.”

Another voice crackles through the static, this time sharper, almost closer. You can hear the distorted shuffle of heavy boots pounding against the pavement.

“Operative Scalar,” the first voice orders, commanding. “Prepare the Temporal Clasp Type-Alpha, and get in position.”

Your body still remains in that traitorous trance, but you’re able to track the figures as they rush towards the center of the plaza.

They move with practiced urgency, cutting through the civilians. Their uniforms look sleek and built with purpose, black and high-collared. Holsters line the sides, each one clipped with tools and charms.

The way their boots hit the ground seems both too quiet and too loud.

Their faces are hidden by intricately carved masks. The nearest combatant’s mask is almost impossible to look away from, painted delicately with curling floral motifs, the soft shapes bleeding into a lily flower. 

“Operative Scalar,” someone else yells out.

“The—the… it’s not—not stabilizing properly—” the operative starts, his distorted voice tight with panic.

He doesn’t finish.

Mid-sentence, his body snaps. His head jerks to the side with a sickening pop, and his limbs slacken. You watch in horror as his spine gives out, curling forward, and then a split moment later, he straightens.

And steps forward.

He walks faster than the others; his pace seems jerky yet smooth. 

One by one, the rest of the operatives snap, their bodies jerking in rhythm with the static humming.

One of them fights it, barely. And for a breathless moment, he resists.

“Need backup… Bra—Bravo and Oscar—please—all—gone—”

But his plea shatters mid-sentence. And, just like the rest, just like you, he staggers towards the stage.

You’re almost at the end now; your breaths are shallow, ragged, but your body continues its slow march alongside the rest.

And then—

The static takes you.

It starts at your feet, climbing upward. The edges of your vision fracture. You watch in terror as your skin breaks apart in flickering static, pieces of yourself unravelling into the air like you were never real to begin with.

When you open your eyes again, you’re floating. Or maybe you’re falling.

It’s impossible to tell in this place, this endless, sprawling void that stretches around you in every direction. The backdrop looks like space, but the stars burn too bright, flickering and humming like they’re alive.

You can feel every nerve in your body on fire.

It’s not mere pain, it’s worse. It’s your skin blistering and freezing at the same time. You feel like you’re drowning in water while flames crawl under your flesh.  Your entire body feels turned inside out… but at the same time, there’s nothing.

The pain is absolute, unbearable, it makes you suffocate, and yet, it’s detached, almost hollow.

The void itself is empty, silent, yet filled with sound.

All around you, voices bleed through the silence. There are screams, broken and hoarse, raw with terror. Whispers, fragmented, almost unintelligible. Laugher, high and breathless. Sobs, gasps, pleas for mercy.

You feel it all. Every emotion. Even humanities rawest, ugliest parts.

And yet, at the same time, you feel nothing.

Knowledge forces its way into your skull, floods your mind, fractures it apart. You know everything and nothing all at once. You know the names of things that should not exist, you know impossible patterns, unsolvable equations.

It hurts. It hurts .

Your nose starts bleeding first, thick crimson droplets floating upward. Then your mouth. And then your ears.

You taste metal.

You try to crawl, but there’s no ground beneath you. You try to swim, to float, but your body refuses.

The space around you tears. It shatters like cracked glass, and the nothingness peels open, exposing something else.

A staircase emerges.

The white marble unnaturally perfect.

The spiral stretches endlessly, curling both upwards and downwards into eternity, no beginning, no end.

Your body drifts closer, drawn to it. The closer you get, the more understanding floods into your skull.

You see the █████ of the universe revealing their ██ forms. How time is merely ██ ████, how dreams ███ ████ ███, how every ████ ████ ██ ███, patient and hungry.

The knowledge continues pouring in, half in words, half in ███ that your mind refuses to comprehend.

It’s beautiful .

Your hand lifts, reaching for the staircase.

Your fingers brush against the smooth, polished rail. The sensation is too much. You feel every atom, every speck of matter, every microscopic fracture in the marble beneath your fingertip.

A voice calls out, from everywhere, yet nowhere..

「 ██ ████ ████ ██ ████ ████ ██ 」

The sentence, if it can even be called that, collapses your mind in an instant.

Your sense of self dissolves. Your ego evaporates like mist under the crushing weight of that impossible voice.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are ███.

You are yourself, but you’re also your coworker, your next-door neighbour, the stranger you gave your seat for on the tram two weeks ago, the old lady selling ice cream next to your old university campus, the shy child you barely remember sitting next to from middle school.

You are everyone. And no one.

The voice fades. But its final words linger, etching themselves not just into your skin, but deep beneath your flesh.

Your eyes snap open. You choke down a scream.

The plaza is in ruins. The stage has collapsed, the Ferris wheel leans at an impossible angle.

Voices shout around you, panicked, distorted. You can’t make sense of the words, the phrases they’re using.

You’re curled on the ground, arms wrapped tight around your knees. You’re trembling, teeth chattering. Tears spill down your cheeks.

The impossible knowledge of ███ ██ and ███ slowly slips away with every second. Part of you wants to desperately cling to it, but the rest is so, so relieved.

A shadow falls over you.

You flinch, heart lurching in your chest.

A man stands beside you, his figure obscured beneath sleek, dark layers of combat gear. His face is hidden behind an intricate mask—porcelain white, etched with fine golden lines that shimmer faintly. A glowing halo hovers above his head, and four delicate wings extend, circling around the mask.

Through the eye slits, two yellow eyes glow sharply, and the dark, almost ethereal blue pupils seem to pulsate subtly.

“Survivor located at the Dreamnode epicenter,” the man speaks, voice smooth and calm. “Physical condition, conscious. Dreamnode contamination level, unknown.”

For some reason, despite the chaos, despite the way your body continues to shake uncontrollably, looking at the man calms you.

He extends a gloved hand towards you.

You hesitate for a moment… then reach out weakly.

The moment you make contact, a soft hum ripples through the air. He murmurs something softly. You don’t catch what he says. Heavy, sudden sleep drags you under.

Incident Overview:

At approximately ██:██ hours on ██.██.███, Dreamnode Codename Veil of Broken Stars spontaneously anchored above the Aideen Park, Golden Hour, Penacony. Surveillance footage captured the initial manifestation: a distortion ripple, followed by the sudden appearance of what analysts have labeled as a non-reflective event horizon.

The phenomenon spread rapidly across a 100m radius, consuming both civilians and infrastructure. All external communication with individuals inside the zone ceased within 18.4 seconds post-exposure.

Response Summary:

At ██:██, Reverie Administration deployed teams I-E4 and N-F7.

Contact lost at ██:██. All members presumed KIA. Cause of death undetermined. Remains unrecoverable.

Director S. Oak arrived on-site approximately eleven minutes post-manifestation. ███-grade containment procedures were initiated. Partial efficiency achieved. The Dreamnode experienced structural collapse, reducing active distortion range.

Subsequent perimeter sweep located a single living subject at the epicenter of the collapsed node.

Post-Exposure Subject Report:

Subject extracted: civilian, identify pending full verification.

• Physical injuries: moderate trauma, superficial lacerations, dehydration.
• Dreamscape readings: critically elevated; flagged for possible ██-███ symbiosis.

Subject reported exposure to conditions inconsistent with reality, including:

• Perception of ███ structures.
• Inverted gravitational orientation.
• Intense sensory and cognitive distortion.
• Auditory hallucinations resembling ██ ███ (██) speech patterns.
• ███ ███ with non-Euclidean trajectory.

Behavioral anomalies include:

• Compulsive sketching of ███ constructs.
• Whispering ████ numerical sequences and ██ phrases.
• Avoidance of reflections, or fixated staring when forced to confront them.

Subject is currently held under strict surveillance within a contamination zone on floor ██-B, pending comprehensive ████ mapping and corruption analysis.

End of Report.

Chapter Text

The hallway stretches endlessly behind you, coiling in impossible spirals. A red carpet, pristine and unwrinkled, rolls beneath your feet, beckoning you forward. Above, massive cube-like structures drift through space. Faceless, they rotate just enough to suggest they’re following your own movement. You try not to look at them for too long.

Vintage posters hang crooked on the walls, ink faded, colors bleeding into one. Some of the names you vaguely recognize—long-dead singers, black-and-white movie stars. Others feel almost fabricated, like someone had invented not just their names, but their entire careers, merely to fill up the missing space with nostalgia.

You walk; you don’t mean to, but your legs are controlled by something that is not yourself.

Lining the halls are countless mannequins. Their limbs are posed with too much elegance to be natural; their arms are stiff, stretched out, each one pointing forward, as if they’re urging you on.

You pass one. It twitches. 

Its fingers tremble, spasm inward like it's trying to form a fist. But a moment later, its movement stops, and it doesn’t squirm again.

The red velvet curtains draped along the walls ripple gently, despite the nonexistent breeze. The mannequins change as you pass them; they’re no longer pointing—they bow. Some press their hands together in a silent prayer, others have their heads lowered, bodies locked in a mid-curtsy.

When you reach the end of the hall, the curtain ahead—impossibly tall, and intricately lined with gold tassels that glint in the unnatural light—parts on its own.

Beyond it, a grandiose stage awaits. Towering balconies encircle the room, and silhouettes gather, nothing but vague shapes, faceless figures that sit perfectly still, watching.

You step forward, and the spotlight pins you beneath its weight, following with silent precision as you drift towards the center of the stage.

Aside from the shapes lurking on the balconies, the theater is completely empty. Its silence is suffocating. And yet, despite this void, you feel dozens of eyes on you. Perhaps hundreds, or more.

The silhouettes begin to shift. At first, it’s subtle, small movements such as their limbs twitching or their heads tilting. But then their shadows begin to writhe, vague outlines sharpening into elongated limbs.

Something stirs above. A long spiraling shape descends from the ceiling; it’s slow, hovering just above the center of the stage.

「 ███ ███ █ ███ 」

Terror roots you on the spot; memories flicker behind your eyes. The taste of blood, the feeling of static in your veins, words and sentences with no meaning.

You open your mouth to scream, but the world unravels faster than you can react.

You wake with a gasp. Your chest heaves.

White ceiling, white walls. Sterile light. The harsh smell of antiseptics.

Your hands clutch at the pristine sheets.

You’re no longer there, wherever it was. You’re in a room, hospital-like, empty except for the faint hum of machines. 

The door clicks open. A man steps inside, dressed in pale blue nurse’s scrubs, a notepad clutched awkwardly in one hand. His gaze lands on your trembling frame tangled in the all-too-sterile sheets, breaths coming in panicked, short bursts. He pauses, blinks. He looks genuinely confused, like he hadn’t expected you to be awake yet.

You try to speak, but your throat protests. It’s dry, raw from screaming. Your words come out thin, a raspy whisper.

“I—I… where am I?”

The man rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight; he looks unsure of how much he’s allowed to share. “You’re at the Reverie Hotel,” he answers after a brief moment of contemplation, voice gentle, yet professional and detached. “Please wait a moment. I’ll call for someone to… explain everything.”

He scribbles something quickly on his notepad, and avoids meeting your eyes.

“One moment, miss.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Minutes pass. It’s enough time for your heartbeat to settle into something less frantic.

You glance around, taking in your surroundings despite the exhaustion.

The room itself is bare. The sterile walls are broken only by a few almost aggressively cheerful pop art posters of abstract shapes and oversized, vividly colored fruits. There’s one poster depicting a singer, her wild gray hair blowing, striking a fierce pose under a splash of neon pinks and blues. Another one is covered in a dizzying cluster of balloons, each one drawn in uneven outlines. Scribbled across all posters are chirpy, insistent messages, full of optimism.

Perhaps they’re meant to inspire tranquility. But you only feel a sense of surveillance, a prickling unease under your skin.

Beside you, the hospital machinery continues to hum in its gentle tone—a heart monitor, a steady IV drip, something unfamiliar that beeps in the corner, recording data you don’t quite fully understand. A plastic vase filled with artificial flowers sits atop the small cupboard near your bed.

Other than that, the room feels empty, hollow.

The curtains by the only window are drawn enough for you to catch a sliver of Penacony’s skyline peeking through. Soft clouds hang low, and the city lights bleed and blur, melting into something reminiscent of a watercolor painting.

The door opens again.

The same nurse enters first, glancing at his notepad. Behind him, a tall woman in a sleek, dark costume steps, her heels sharp against the floor. Following her is a shorter man in a laboratory coat, his ID clipped neatly to his chest.

The woman speaks first.

“Good. You’re finally awake.” Her voice is clipped. “I am Senior Command Operative Carrie, part of the Oak Family. I’m here on behalf of the Reverie.”

You blink at her, still struggling to fully catch up; her words only confuse you more. She doesn’t wait.

“Dr. Patt, I need a full evaluation. She must be mentally stable enough to meet with Director Oak himself.”

The doctor steps forward. “I’ll just ask you a few questions, alright? Nothing difficult.” He tries to keep his tone polite, but his voice is strained at the edges. “Can you tell me your name? Do you know what day it is?”

You swallow the dryness in your throat, trying to piece your thoughts into something that sounds coherent.

You start with your name, barely managing. “I work at… an office. Just admin work. Nothing… nothing important.” You blink at your hands, how they tremble. “I remember I was supposed to meet my coworkers. There was… a festival. A small one. In Aideen Park.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to press further back into your memory. But it’s too painful, like pressing your fingers against a tender bruise. There’s a sharp ache that blooms behind your temples. You wince.

“Sorry—ngh. My head… it—it hurts too much.”

“Don’t push yourself too much, then.” The doctor soothes. “You’ve been through an accident. It’s not… unusual to experience memory gaps after a traumatic experience. So, let’s take it slow, alright?” His tone sounds rehearsed.

An accident? A part of you doesn’t want to fully believe their words.

Still, you nod.

The doctor begins his routine—he checks your eyes, asking you to follow the light from his flashlight, he checks your reflexes, tapping at your knee. He looks at your blood pressure, your heart rate. He checks your coordination, tests how steady your grip is when you squeeze his hand.

He tells you you’re fine; there’s nothing concerning. But you can tell it’s something else they’re looking for.

At the end, he murmurs something to the woman, too quiet for you to catch. She nods.

“Good news,” she says. “If you’re able to stand, you should be fit enough for a conversation. The Director is waiting.”

Elsewhere, far from the sterile hospital-like room and the fluorescent white lights, a meeting takes place.

The table is round. Polished so finely that light refracts off its surface, catching the distorted reflections of the men and women seated around it. Security personnel line the walls like well-dressed shadows, faces hidden behind standard-issue masks, unmoving.

A young man with smooth, shoulder-length silver hair stands. He never sits during such meetings; not out of respect, or hierarchy, but because he enjoys the weight his presence casts when he towers over the rest.

Projected at the center of the table is static footage, looping every few seconds—images of Aideen Park crumbling, a void where the sky should be.

“Our drone surveillance footage clearly shows that the Dreamnode, at peak threshold, collapsed into a non-reflective event horizon. Seconds later, reality integrity was compromised, and pulled inwards. Initial response teams, I-E4 and N-F7, were lost, with no recoverable remains.”

A woman reads in a monotone voice, shuffling her papers. ”Civilian casualties. Except…” she hesitates for a moment. “One.”

Soft murmurs pass between the Family Heads and their subordinates.

Sunday’s smile doesn’t falter.

“The survivor is under quarantine,” he says before anyone can ask. “Under my jurisdiction.” His voice is smooth, like this is merely a simple routine for him, like the matter is already settled.

“That’s absurd. Unacceptable,” snaps the Iris Family head, a tall woman with long and curly sandy blond hair. Her fingers drum against the table. “The subject’s contamination exceeds all documented parameters. No one has ever survived exposure to such a high-class Dreamnode.”

The woman’s gaze hardens. “You know the protocol. We must neutralize it.”

Sunday tilts his head, offering her a smile so perfectly measured it borders on mocking.

“Ah, you misunderstand me, Madam Maeven Ellis. I'm not seeking approval, only extending you the courtesy of hearing what’s already set in motion."

The others shift, exchanging uneasy glances.

“We’ve all expressed interest in the long-term psychological impacts of S-class and above Dreamnode exposure, haven’t we?” His golden eyes gleam behind the curtain of silver hair. “And now, how convenient. We’ve been handed a perfect opportunity, a natural case study. A living anomaly, if you will. One very real civilian who walked in where none of our operatives could.”

His words hang in the air.

Before Maeven can snarl back, another voice cuts through the growing chaos.

“I agree with Director Oak.”

All eyes turn to Gopher Wood, seated comfortably, fingers laced atop his cane.

“You’re far too hasty, Madam Ellis. We’ve all been pursuing results for years. And now we have a survivor. Are you truly so eager to waste such a resource?” He chuckles.

Maeven scowls, but says nothing further. She isn’t brave, or perhaps foolish, enough to push against two figures such as Sunday Oak and Gopher Wood.

“You say that now,” grumbles a short statured man, fingers absently combing through the curls of his white beard. His gold rings clink against the medallions draped across his chest. “But when it all goes wrong, I won’t be the one tidying up the mess.”

“Mister Oti Alfalfa, you needn’t concern yourself.” Sunday’s gaze slides towards him, eyes-half lidded, like a hunter studying its prey. “I’ve always been quite adept at cleaning up my own messes.”

There is another pause. The heads exchange glances. One by one, they all nod, resigned.

“Splendid,” Sunday murmurs. There is no flicker of surprise in his expression; he is calm, as if he had already seen the outcome play out. “Then we shall see, in due time, what becomes of this little survivor.”

He offers a half-curtsy to the assembled Family Heads. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I must attend to other matters.”

Before he leaves, he turns to them. A sharp glint passes through his golden eyes.

“The subject,” he says, “will remain under my gaze. And I would advise against looking too closely at what is no longer yours to see.”

It takes time, but eventually, your legs remember how to work. You peel yourself up from the sheets, slow and shaky, scrubbing at your face with cold water until you look almost human again. Your reflection in the mirror isn’t convincing—you look haunted, hollowed cheeks and pallid skin.

The woman from before returns, two bodyguards in tow.

“This way.” She offers no conversation, no further explanation.

You follow, the guards flanking you. The hallway stretches on. Doors shaped like keyholes line both sides. The light here is gentler, casting everything in a warm glow; somehow, it brings you comfort.

Paintings hang in neat intervals along the walls. Some are abstract, geometric compositions meant to disorient. When you stare too long, the edges blur and their shapes shift into a spiral that shouldn’t be there.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from it and glance at the next frame—it’s softer. An oil canvas in a thick gold frame, the kind you would see in a museum. In it, a woman sits by a window, her posture serene, soft eyes cast towards an endless wheat field.

But the ways the clouds curve, the way the wheat bends… it starts to form something else. Your eyes follow the pattern before you can stop yourself. The spiral forms again.

Your heart speeds up. You decide to look at the plush carpet instead.

Eventually, the woman leads you into a modern elevator. You feel the pressure in your ears as it silently ascends higher and higher.

When the door opens, she doesn’t step out with you.

Instead, she gestures towards the ornate double doors ahead.

“The Director is waiting,” Carrie says. “You’ll go alone from here.”

And so, she leaves you standing alone before the door.

You inhale, slowly, trying to calm your frayed mind.

Gold lines are etched across the door; they curl, shifting. The spiral appears again, taking shape where it shouldn't.

You look away, and press your hand against the wood. After a moment, you knock.

There’s a pause, and then a voice beckons you in.

You step forward, pushing the door open.The room is spacious—a high ceiling that almost feels infinite, a wall of windows half-veiled in sheer, iridescent curtains. Somewhere, a gramophone spins, playing a familiar song—something you might’ve heard at work or even a radio station during a commute—but it’s wrapped in a vintage haze, crackling.

And at the heart of it all, standing next to a wooden desk, is a man you recognize.

You’re sure you’ve seen him before. Not his face, but his presence.

He smiles, as if reading your thoughts.

“Welcome,” he greets softly. “It’s good to see you on your feet.”

He approaches with a languid pace, like someone who has never been pressed for time a day in his life. His suit is immaculate—soft blues and grays blending beneath a pure white coat. Golden ornaments trace along the fabric, the centerpiece shaped like an eye. On his left shoulder, another golden piece holds a flowing blue cape, its tassels swaying gently with his movement.

His eyes gleam with a strange, almost artificial warmth.

“I’m Sunday Oak. One of the Family Heads, or Directors, here, as I’m sure you have gathered.” His tone is charismatic, in a way that makes it hard to look away. “And you, my dear, were in quite the accident.”

Your mouth feels dry again.

“I… I don’t remember much,” you admit. “I remember going to meet my coworkers. A festival. Something happened, but… after that… it just slips away.”

He watches you closely, gaze steady, weighing every word you say.

“That’s to be expected,” he says, voice almost tender, but you can’t tell if the concern is genuine or just carefully practiced. “What you encountered wasn’t… ordinary. But don’t trouble yourself with the details just yet. Tell me, how are you feeling now?”

You don’t mean to ignore his question, but somehow, you turn the conversations towards your own pressing doubts.

“What happened to me?” you press, your voice thinner than you want it to be. “Where am I? Why am I here? This cannot be the Reverie Hotel. I need… I need answers.”

Sunday’s smile doesn’t falter, not exactly, but something in his eyes sharpens. His gaze looks almost cruel, calculating, for a split second.

He doesn’t answer you, but steps closer, hands folding neatly behind his back.

“Forget the where and the why for a moment.” His words sound distant, muffled even, like they’re coming from underwater. Each word feels slower, heavier, impossible to hold on to.

“Tell me… how do you feel? Right now. Truly.”

The room wavers. Not in a way that would make sense—as if anything up until now really has—but somewhere deep in your mind, you feel something twist. Your vision goes soft around the edges, shimmering faintly, almost opalescent. His words are pulling something from beneath the surface of your consciousness.

“How do you truly feel?”

How do you truly feel?

You don’t want to answer, not him, not out loud.

But the truth somehow claws its way out anyway.

“I’m—” you try to bite it back. “I’m scared .”

The confession leaves you feeling hollow.

“Good. Be honest. That way, we can understand each other better.”

You realize belatedly that you’ve sunk onto the nearest chair without even noticing when your knees gave out.

“You survived what we call a Dreamnode. Imagine it similar to a rupture in reality.” His gaze studies your trembling figure. “Most who encounter one don’t return. Or those who do return, they don’t truly remain whole.”

You don’t understand his words, the implications behind them. But you remember you weren’t the only one that day. “That can’t be right. There were people—there were others, I saw—”

“There were .” He closes his eyes, a solemn look on his face. “They’re gone now. You are not.”

His words sound like lies, a little too smooth, a little too rehearsed. But whatever part of you had the strength to question him back feels dull, worn thin. You nod.

“You were the only survivor,” he says again, as if repeating it makes it seem more real .

You want to tell him he’s lying. You want to tell him none of this makes sense—because, of course it doesn’t. But the words won’t come. Your throat burns, your thoughts spin.

“You’re safe now, with us.” His voice is not just reassuring, but hypnotic, full of promise. “We can protect you.”

And when he smiles again, it feels almost merciful, almost kind.

“You’ve been through something no one should ever endure.” It sounds like sympathy, like he’s holding out an outstretched hand, ready to give his all to pull you out, even if you feel yourself slipping deeper.

“There are things in this world, things that most people will never see or understand.” He speaks like he’s telling you a bedtime story. “These Dreamnodes are not natural things.”

He lets his words linger for a moment.

“They’re manifestations of unreality . Some are fragments of thoughts, emotions, dreams. Things that were never meant to take shape, but clawed their way into existence all the same. These dreams, obsessions…”

His gloved hand gestures vaguely, tracing some unseen shape in the air.

“...they slip through cracks. They don’t belong here, so they eat away at the seams of reality to make space for themselves.”

“Like… holes in our world?”

Sunday chuckles, almost fondly. “Something… like that.”

“They’re dangerous. But also… valuable. Dream essence can be harvested from them, a power unlike anything our mundane world could ever produce.”

He stops before you, his hand resting lightly atop the back of the chair.

“We… myself, and others like me… we contain these anomalies. And harvest this raw material of miracles.”

You want to tell him no. That this is insane. That this doesn’t happen in the real world; rather, it sounds like the plot of a bad horror story you’d read on an obscure forum and mock online with friends. But your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, your head full of fog.

Sunday’s voice makes everything sound reasonable .

“You survived such an experience.” He says it so confidently, like his words are proof enough. “And you were left with a power greater than anyone could ever dream of.”

You shake your head. “I’m not—I’m not special. I just—”

He hushes you. “No one believes they are, at first.”

“No—I—”

His fingers brush a strand of your hair.

“Try to remember.”

Try to remember.

You don’t want to. But the command buries itself deep beneath your skin. The same iridescent shimmer from before hums at the edges of your vision.

And so you remember—the sky tearing itself open, the staircase gleaming impossibly white, the voice without a sound, the words without a language. The weight of the knowledge bestowed upon you until you bled from your eyes.

You sink forward, arms tightly wrapped around your trembling figure. “I didn’t want this,” you gasp, hot tears down your face. “I didn’t ask for this. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to—”

Sunday crouches before you, listening, like a priest to a confession.

“You’re frightened. I understand. But you’ve already stepped beyond the threshold. There’s no going back.”

You look at him through blurred vision, throat tight with grief and terror, and something else you do not have words for.

“I… what happens now?”

His smile returns, gentle and terrible all at once.

“You have two choices.” His gloved hand reaches to brush a tear from your cheek with surprising tenderness. “You’ve been touched by something we cannot undo. This mark, if left unchecked will fester, corrupt. You might harm others, without even meaning to.”

You choke back a sob.

“So,” his voice is still soft, still tender, still so inviting. “You can join us. Learn to control it.”

He tilts his head, like a doctor before a terminal patient, looking for the words to explain a diagnosis with no cure.

“You can refuse.” A pause. He almost sounds regretful. “And die here.”

He says it like it pains him to offer it; like he’s sorry it has to be this way.

But his golden eyes tell another story. There’s a quiet triumph beneath all that gentle concern.

You realize then that this isn’t truly a choice at all. He’s not offering you freedom. He’s offering you a leash or a grave.

And he’s already won.

[REVERIE ADMINISTRATION, INTERNAL LOG — ACCESS LEVEL: ███ ]

Clearance level: ███ Only

Access Granted to: █████ ███ & █████ ████

Post-Exposure Evaluation: Subject #████

Exposure appears to have left residual imprints of ███ origin. Correlation to ███ ████ highly probable. Cross-referencing with currently available records of ███ ████ further supports the likelihood of direct contact. All evidence points towards ███ ████ involvement.

Subject is deemed highly susceptible to direct influence and suggestion. Current mental conditions render the subject vulnerable to long-term ideological conditioning.

Potential implications for ███████ ███ ███████ ████████ project are significant.

Chapter Text

[REVERIE ADMINISTRATION, INTERNAL LOG — ACCESS LEVEL: ███ ]

Clearance level: ███ Only

Access Granted to: █████ ███ & █████ ████

Integration log: Subject #████

Subject has formally agreed to join the Reverie. Will be assigned to a small operational unit composed solely of █████ ███’s trusted subordinates to ensure observation, and controlled exposure during early missions. Team selection will prioritise individuals versed in rapid neutralization protocols, should the subject deviate.

First mission scheduled for ██.██.████ at ██:██ hours. Designed to measure the subject’s mental resilience.

Subject will be administered Dream Syrup following mission debrief. Dosage will be calibrated.

Weekly sessions with █████ ███ scheduled to commence post-mission. Sessions intended to reinforce desired behaviour patterns, deepen loyalty, and monitor ███ ████’s influence.

You sit on your new bed, body stiff. The notebook they gave you rests heavy in your lap, pages already worn soft beneath your fingertips as you flip through them again and again.

The diagrams, the grainy, overexposed photos, the clinical step-by-step procedures written like they belong to a laboratory protocol—they all read like something you’d find hidden deep in a forum thread, posted late at night, with countless comments telling the author to stop LARPing and get a grip on reality.

[Dream Essence 

Dream Essence is a volatile byproduct extracted through the induced dormancy phase of a Dreamnode.

Harvested essence is collected in specialized containment units known as Dream Collection Components . In its raw state, the substance is low in viscosity and fully transparent. Once stabilized, the Dream Essence undergoes transformation.

Post-collection coloration and consistency follow the given pattern:

• Green: F- to D-class Dreamnodes
• Yellow: B-class Dreamnodes
• Iridescent: S-class and above

All samples must be logged immediately after collection.]

You flip to a random page—this one depicts a diagram of something that’s supposedly standard-issue, a protection device used by field agents. The components are neatly labeled, the most important parts marked with tiny asterisks and red underlines. You try to make sense of the terminology, but it all sounds too fake.

Shaking your head, you flip through the book again. This time, your gaze lands on a two-page spread, an almost reverent-sounding outline detailing the Reverie Families. Under each ornate crest is a portrait, and beneath that, a name printed in bold.

Each Family branch has its task, its own purpose. Preservation. Containment. Extraction. Surveillance.

Your eyes keep drifting back to the entry on the Oak Family. You’ve already read it—three times by now, or maybe even more—but you still find yourself rereading it. Again and again. The words barely register; it’s the portrait itself that holds you.

A page and a half, all for him. Sunday Oak.

Your thumb brushes over the ink.

[Sunday Oak: Oak Family Head

Current head of the Oak Family. Serves as one of the Reverie’s acting Directors, with direct authority over tactical suppression and hazardous Dreamnode neutralization.

Noted for unusually high resistance to S-Class and above Dreamnode effects from an early age. Exhibits resonance with anomalies sub-classified as Ordinal- and Harmonious-bound. (For full classification schema, refer to Appendix III, p. 194) .]

You stop reading and shut the book with a firm thud.

The pages of your mission assignment are splayed out across the bed, half-crumpled around the edges. You skimmed through them once—the bullet points detailing the rules for successfully harvesting essence from the Dreamnode were enough to send chills running across your spine.

You decided, almost immediately, that this job isn’t for you.

But do you really have a choice? There’s a metaphorical leash—one disguised as hospitality and concern—wrapped tightly around your throat. You’re merely a prisoner in a gilded cage, just another number in their system.

You’re stuck having to live by their rules.

With a sigh, you press your fingers against your temples, as if the massage could chase away the exhaustion creeping uninvited under your skin. You snatch the crumpled sheets, skimming again through the profiles of the operatives who will be entering the Dreamnode with you.

You read between the lines—they aren’t your teammates, people with such abilities don’t get assigned at random. It’s clear that they’re the Director’s puppets, clearly meant to monitor and keep you from breaking loose.

You linger on the file marked Furcas.

[Codename: Furcas

Senior Command Operative under the Oak Family branch. Exhibits controlled fire and ice generation within Dreamnodes within F- through B-class. Medium resonance with Dreamnodes subclassified as Memoria-imprinted.

Confirmed survivor of Dreamnode ‘Struggling Color’. No retained perception of blue and purple hues post-extraction. Subject has fully adapted.]

No human face stares back at you, only a grainy picture—a lanky man with shaggy white hair, and a porcelain mask etched with delicate astronomy motifs. The phases of the moon encircle the edges of the mask entirely, while constellations dot the empty spaces between.

Through the mask’s eyeholes, you can make out violet irises.

Your thumb presses against the last sentence of his file, rereading it again.

You wonder, how did it feel? To wake up one day and find parts of the world erased from his sight, to forget what color his own eyes are. You wonder, how would it feel, if it was you instead of him, if you start losing more little pieces of yourself that you took for granted.

The spiraling thoughts are cut short by a sharp, deliberate knock against your door.

You rise without answering. When you open the door, there’s a person standing there, face hidden behind a plain mask.

“You must move,” the person says, voice muffled beneath the mask. “Mission briefing is about to start. I’m here to bring you to the others.”

You don’t reply straight away, fingers tightening around the edge of the doorknob.

What if I said no? You want to ask. But, in the end, you step out into the hall without a word.

The masked figure leads you down the hallway; you follow in silence, glancing around the locked doors of the dormitory wing.

In the two days since your arrival, you’ve only ventured out three times—twice for dinner, once for lunch. Each time you forced yourself to walk through these same halls, ignoring the stares that lingered, or the voices that always seemed to hush whenever you would pass by.

Finally, you reach an elevator. Glass-panelled, and suspended over the heart of the hotel, it gives a full view of the floors as they stretch both above and below.

The view is disorienting.

From here, you can see the balconies and hallways, how they all twist in an impossible geometry, all wrapping around the central atrium of the hotel. You crane your neck, but there is no visible end to them in any direction.

The masked figure presses their security card against the elevator’s panel. It beeps softly, and lights up green. Their gloved fingers press two buttons— 2 and 1.

The elevator doesn’t descend, it doesn’t pause at the second floor, nor the first. Instead, it rises.

The Reverie Hotel has only twenty floors, and yet the elevator finally stops at floor 21.

When the doors finally open, the hall in front looks no different than the rest. The same deep red carpet, the same doors shaped like ornate keyholes, spaced out at precise intervals. The same arrangement of evergreen plants and surreal paintings lining the walls.

You’re led to the first door on the left. It’s already ajar, just barely cracked open, and from what you can see, it resembles an office.

You enter alone.

Inside there are four people waiting.

The first is the man with the codename Furcas, unmistakable with his shaggy white hair and porcelain mask decorated with constellations and phases of the moon. His deepset eyes remain barely visible through the narrow eyeholes.

Next to him stands a woman. Her porcelain mask is tinted faint green; a bow gleams across one cheek, and an arrow across the other, both engraved with a shimmering green mineral. The third member, broader in frame, wears a mask adorned with serpentine motifs curling along the sides, crowned with sharp horns.

Furcas. Leraie. Balam. Codenames you read off the crumpled sheets left back in your room.

But the fourth figure doesn’t need an introduction off paper, like the rest.

Even with his mask on—one you recognize seeing before—you’d know it's him. His presence is impossible to mistake. The weight of it fills the room, presses around you, until even breathing under his steady gaze feels like an impossible task to accomplish.

Sunday Oak.

Your supposed benefactor. But, in reality, your captor in all but name.

Your future teammates offer small nods in acknowledgement as you enter, no warmth behind their gestures.

Sunday, however, greets you warmly.

“Ah,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Welcome. We’ve been waiting.”

Despite his words dripping with kindness, you can’t help but feel it’s not really you he’s welcoming. But your potential, your usefulness.

“I trust you’ve had time to read through the dossier?” He asks, tilting his head. 

You nod, mechanically. Your whole body feels stiff.

You don’t tell him the truth—how you barely skimmed through the text, how your stomach churned with every line you forced yourself to read.

“Good,” he says, satisfied. “Then I won’t waste anymore time.” 

He gestures, and one of the masked subordinates—Leraie—retrieves a neatly folded uniform, and hands it to you. “Your equipment for this mission, get ready.”

The uniform is utilitarian, designed with combat in mind. Heavy-duty cargo pants, reinforced at the kneecaps, deep-set pockets tailored to hold tools and weapons.

You retreat to the small adjoining bathroom without a word, changing quickly beneath the flickering fluorescent lights. The fabric is thick, heavier than it looks. You opt to hold the jacket in your arms instead of wearing it.

When you step back into the office-like space, Sunday is already waiting, something glinting in his hand.

“This,” he says, holding the item between two fingers, “will be your Dream Collection Components for the mission.”

The item matches the diagrams perfectly—small, cylindrical, filled with a transparent liquid. You take it, careful when you touch the cold surface.

“There’s one more thing,” Sunday continues, voice lilting almost teasingly. “Your mask. It’s being prepared. But first, you must complete the mission. And once you have proven yourself, I will present it to you properly.”

His words twist something in your gut. The way he says it—like you’re just a dog who has yet to learn to listen to its master’s commands—makes your skin crawl.

You nod, unable to speak past the nausea crawling up your throat. You stare down at the capsule in your palm, watching the liquid inside catch the light.

Your mask. Once you’ve proven yourself.

Those words hang heavy in the air. You don’t realize how tightly you’re gripping the capsule until you feel an ache bloom across your palms.

“This way,” Sunday says gently, as if coaxing you along.

You follow. Of course you do—what other choice do you have?

The three operatives move, already ahead of you. Balam’s heavy footsteps echo sluggishly.

They lead you to a door farther down the hall. It bears a brass plaque, untarnished by the passage of time.

Dreamnode: The Drowned Hour

Class: D-class

Room: 07B

Your stomach turns again.

Balam steps forward to open the door. His fingers brush briefly against the plaque as if out of habit. He lingers like that for a moment.

Sunday stops just beside you; close enough for you to feel the weight of his gaze settle over your figure.

“Good luck,” he says slowly, voice soft.

You glance at him. And you wish you didn’t.

There is no kindness or warmth beneath his gaze, rather, a glint of satisfaction. 

The door creaks open. Your three squadmates step inside without waiting. You hesitate, then follow. 

You can feel his sharp gaze on your back the whole way in.

The moment you step through the threshold, everything melts. What should have been another expensive and gaudy Reverie suit vanishes away beneath your feet. In its place is a frozen lake, stretching beneath a colorless sky. Pale light filters through the clouds, casting no warmth over the bleak, icy expanse that surrounds you.

There’s nothing else; no buildings or animals. Not even the glimmer of another human being. Just the skeletal silhouettes of hundreds of pine trees rising by the lake’s edges.

The icy air bites at your skin. When you exhale, your breath fogs in front of you in thin wisps. You finally slip into the jacket they gave you. It’s heavy, but it shields you enough from the ache settling into your bones.

Everything is quiet. Too quiet. Not in a peaceful way, rather, the kind that makes your instincts scream about unseen predators prowling around.

Your booths crunch over thick layers of snow as you step forward. A hollow, brittle crack echoes around, and you freeze, half-expecting the lake to open up and swallow you whole.

When it doesn’t, you tell yourself to move. And so you do, slowly, carefully.

Minutes pass.

And then you hear it. Light and familiar laughter. One you can recognize instantly—your own. One that belongs to a version of you long gone. A memory, so vivid and almost cruel in its clarity—a birthday party, your arms wrapped tightly around friends and family, balloons drifting lazily near the ceiling. The sharp pop of one bursting, your delighted shriek filling the room. A cake, homemade and clumsily decorated with characters you once adored.

Your heart aches. But you keep walking.

More minutes pass. The silence grows heavier, more unbearable than the memory of your own voice.

Then, another voice. Sharp, impatient. Your high school teacher, berating you and a friend for being late. Your friend rattles off excuse after excuse, each one promptly dismantled by the teacher’s dry retorts. From the back of the classroom, someone snickers at your embarrassed face.

The voices—-the memories—blur and overlap with another.

A softer voice now. Your coworker asking you to double-check a document before she sends it off. She thanks you, promising to bring some of her signature chilli oil beef stew as thanks. It’s a secret recipe, she says, passed down from her parents back in the Xianzhou.

Then, louder than the rest, you hear your own voice. At least, you think it should be yours.

It’s an amalgamation of every version of you that’s ever existed—the soft timbre of a child, the sharp defiance of a teenager, the worn-out voice of an overworked adult. Your current voice, uncertain, frayed at the edges. All of them speaking at once.

“Look at us. Remember us.”

They whisper. They also scream.

You don’t want to. But you can see them already, in the corner of your eye, spread across the icy expanse. The reflections shift beneath the ice—birthdays, family dinners, class presentations, drinks with colleagues. They loop over and over.

The cracks beneath your feet deepen. Each step makes them worse.

The voices grow louder. Some of them plead, some murmur words too soft to catch. They all overlap, weaving together in a noise that presses against your temples, impossible to ignore.

You stop walking. You shouldn’t , you know you shouldn’t.

Your gaze drops at your feet. And there, on the icy surface, your own face looks back at you. Its mouth moves, begging for something you don’t understand. The reflection ripples, and it flickers into another version of you, and then another.

Your knees ache with the urge to crouch, to reach down and touch the surface.

A soft cry escapes your dry lips as you force yourself to move, one foot slowly dragging after the other. The minutes stretch into hours. More memories, more voices. A stranger apologizing for bumping into you. A server taking your order. A parent scolding you. An old lover whispering sweet nothings softly into your ear.

You stay quiet, looking only ahead. But you’re so lonely . You’re so tired.

Maybe—just maybe—if you answered the ache would ease. Just a single word. Just one.

You’re on the verge of giving up, when you see them. Silhouettes far ahead, blurred and distant figures against the pale, endless white.

Your heart lurches. You move faster, feet crunching over the fragile ice.

CRACK .

The ice beneath your groans. Hairline fractures creep outward. The cracks hiss, spreading. Water laps at your feet.

Don’t run .

You force yourself to steady your pace, even as every instinct screams at you to bolt forward.

The figures grow closer, and when you finally reach them, you see him . An elderly man in a battered brown coat, hunched over a tiny hole carved onto the ice. A fishing pole is clutched loosely in his hands, and an empty metal bucket sits by his side, the rim lined with frost.

He doesn’t look at you first, just stares into the black water as though he is waiting for something. Your squadmates sit around him in utter silence; none of them greet you, none of them even glance your way.

Only the old man moves. He tilts his head towards you, gives you a crooked, toothy smile.

“Ain’t often we get such nice company out ‘ere on the ice,” he rasps, voice thick, weather by age and bad lungs.

You don’t answer, but nod awkwardly, and lower yourself down to sit beside Furcas. You glance at the old man’s side. A soggy, ruined pack of cigarettes—a brand no longer available on the shelves—sits half-buried in slush.

The old man casts his line. The fishing pole trembles in his gnarled hands, the string vanishing into the inky blackness beneath the ice. He hums under his breath.

“Not much for talkin’, these ones,” he nudges his chin towards your team members. “Quiet’s no good when yer’ fishin’. Makes ye feel like yer’ the only thing left alive.”

He chuckles dryly.

“Got a wife, y’know. A little girl, too.” He adjusts the reel. “Fishin’ is how we eat. The wife, she writes. Nothin’ big yet. I fish, she writes, we make do.”

He glances your way, but you keep your gaze fixed on the hole in the ice, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Ye don’t talk much either, eh?” He laughs. “That’s fine, I’ll do enough for all of us.”

The man continues talking.

He tells you about the first time he held his daughter—how impossibly small she looked in his arms, how her cries were louder than what he thought a newborn could manage. How startled he had been, and how his wife had laughed.

He tells you about the first rod he ever bought. A cheap little thing. How it had snapped clean in half the moment he caught something bigger than a pebble on the street. How he went back to the market, ready to rise hell, only for the shopkeeper—smooth-tongued and all charming—to sell him another one instead.

He tells you about cooking with his daughter. How she had started insisting on helping him even before she could even reach the counter. How he used to hold her in one arm while stirring the stew with the other. How, eventually, he couldn’t lift her anymore, but by then, she had grown enough and could reach the counter on her own.

If you close your eyes, you can almost see the scenes play out.

“My little girl… she had this birthday once.” In your peripheral vision, you can see the man’s grin widen. “Big ol’ cake, balloons all over the place, her friends runnin’ around. Her momma stayed up all night decoratin’ that cake, tryin’ to draw them cartoon folks she liked so much. Eh, weren’t the prettiest thing, but it sure damn tasted good.”

You swallow hard; your hands won’t stop trembling.

“Ahh, she’s all grown now. Smartest in her class. Top grades, real sharp. Nothin’ like me. I used to be a bit of a rascal, y’know? Always late to school, always gettin’ chewed out by the teachers. Hah, we thought we were slick with our excuses.”

Your bite down your lip, the metallic taste of blood hitting your tongue. His stories are getting too specific, too familiar.

The ice beneath your feet groans.

“Back ‘fore I picked up fishin’, I wanted to be a painter.” He goes on, voice almost wistful. “Dreamed of seein’ my work in them fancy galleries. But, c’mon, a painter and a writer? Can’t feed a family on dreams like that.”

Beside you, Furcas stiffens, the ice around him cracking loudly.

“C’mon, ye gotta have a few favorite memories, too? Can’t be the only one sharin’ stories, can I?”

You want to cry. You want to shout out your own memories into the air. To correct the fisherman’s lies, to fix the little pieces he’s getting wrong. Because maybe… maybe if you say these memories aloud, if you shape them into words, then they’ll become real again.

Because, now, no one remembers you. Not your coworker, not your reprimanding teacher, not even your own parents. To them, those memories are but a blur. To them, you’re just another face in the crowd.

You hate the Reverie, not for stealing those moments from you, but from everyone else. For making them forget you.

Your lips part, just a breath.

Something sharp digs at your side. Furcas nudges you, and through the slits of his porcelain mask, you catch a glint of his violet eyes narrowing in warning, almost like a silent command.

You swallow the words. The fisherman keeps talking, keeps recounting memories that were never his to begin with.

You try not to listen, but you can’t block out his voice.

Finally, something bites. The fishing pole jerks, and he lets out a triumphant whoop.

“Ha! Got somethin’ at last!”

He reels it in slowly, humming. The ice cracks once more. The catch breaches the surface.

But… it’s wrong. Barely resembles a fish. Its body is shaped from dull metal, and its mouth is stretched open, rimmed with jagged teeth. Where its belly should be, there’s only a circular void; suspended within the ring is a collection of notepads floating in midair.

Its eyes are too human, unblinking and fixated on you.

The fish twitches. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about yourself.” It repeats it, again and again, speaking in dozens of voices layered atop one another.

The fisherman beams with pride over his grotesque catch. He gestures for you all to follow him. “No sense in wastin’ good company. Come now, join me for dinner.”

His voice is gentle, coaxing. You stand up with the rest.

The walk back feels strangely shorter. And before you know it, you reach the cabin.

It;s a small thing, haphazardly painted red, sitting too closely to the shore’s edge. Everything creaks when the man pushes open the door.

Inside, the house feels old, lived-in. The wallpaper peels in long, curling strips. Wooden beams sag. At the center of the room sits a round table, surrounded by five chairs. Five chipped dinner plates. Five sets of cutlery, dulled with rust.

Dusty shelves display memorabilia—faded black-and-white photographs, each face blurred beyond recognition. A bouquet of dried flowers in a jar, a small handwritten card still tied around the stems. Beside it, a glass jar holds painter’s brushes, stiff with dried paint.

The kitchen is tucked away in a corner, nothing more than a narrow counter and a battered old stove. The stench of fish clings to every surface. On the counter, a bucket overflows with the same uncanny fish from earlier. Their human eyes follow you whenever you move, unblinking.

“Sit, sit,” the man beams, ushering you towards the table. “I’ll make dinner real nice for ya.”

He strides to the kitchen area, pushing up his sleeves. You watch his blade catch the light as it slices through the fish. The metal peels away too easily, soft like flesh. The air fills with the sharp tang of seasoning.

Everyone is silent.

The man finishes his work and begins plating the meal with care. One by one, he sets the dishes down on the dinner table. The fish, now neatly portioned, rests besides heaps of unfamiliar vegetables—some you’ve never seen before, others jarringly wrong. Broccoli with the color of fresh blood, a baked potato dyed an unnatural blue.

Then he takes his seat and bows his head.

“For good company,” he says softly. “For the memories we share.”

He lifts his gaze. “Eat up now, don’t let the catch go cold.”

The food smells incredible, nostalgic even. It wraps around you like a warm blanket, conjuring forgotten memories of quiet dinners in front of the TV, watching reruns of your favorite shows, your parents laughing beside you.

Leraie lifts her fork and lets it hover, motionless, above the plate. Balam quietly cuts the fish into smaller pieces, pushing them back and forth. Furcas arranges the vegetables in neat rows, before disrupting the pattern, dissatisfied with his work, and starting all over again.

They clink glasses filled with something golden.

Yet, none of them eat, none of them drink.

You don’t reach for your fork. Your eyes wander instead, scanning the room again. There’s a postcard taped to the minifridge, one you wrote during the summer you first traveled alone. On the bookcase, a row of your old schoolbooks; ones you remembered doodling on during boring classes.

There are items that don’t belong to you. Like the half-finished canvas propped against the wall—an empty city bathed in blue hour light. Or the worn-out dog collar hanging by the door, a leash looped neatly around it.

You can’t help but wonder, how are they so calm, so composed, with pieces of their lives displayed so open, for all to see? Doesn’t it hurt them, to have their own memories laid bare, like pieces of decoration?

You want to stand up and storm across the room, to snatch the old plush toy resting on the armchair. The one you won from the stupidly stubborn claw machine by your middle school. You remember when it finally fell apart in your arms, the seams fraying after years of love and use. So how is it here, now , in perfect condition?

But you stay seated, nails pressing crescent indents into your palms.

“Well, folks? How was it?” the fisherman asks, wiping his mouth as he downs the last sip of his mead. The glass hits the table with a loud thunk.

Furcas exhales, and the tension in his body slowly dissipates. “Lovely,” he answers. “A meal worth remembering. Definitely, a memory I’ll cherish.” His words are smooth, polished. He goes on, praising the man’s skill, recounting the thrill he felt watching the catch. Every sentence sounds practiced, like reading off a script.

Balam is next, nodding enthusiastically. He layers praise after praise with such confidence you would almost be convinced of his words. Then Leraie rises, she thanks the fisherman, sweeping a hand through her brown hair as she compliments the seasoning.

Their eyes fall on you, waiting for your words.

Furcas’s glare sharpens beneath his pale mask. Without a word, he moves around the table, stops behind you, and rests a hand on your shoulder. You can feel the bite of his nails through the thick fabric of your uniform. A silent warning.

You know the protocol; you know exactly what to say. Pretend this fabricated moment is the pinnacle of your whole existence, pretend it’s worth stealing.

But you don’t want to. In the beginning, when you had stepped into the icy expanse, all by yourself, fear had gnawed at you. But now, anger is all that’s left; raw, simmering beneath your skin.

It’s not fair, how unaffected they all seem.

You wonder if Sunday chose this Dreamnode on purpose. A cruel stage to parade your losses in front of you, to remind you of people you’ll never see again. Did he think it would break you? Or is this an elaborate scheme, one in which he is patiently waiting for you to unravel and make a mistake, so he can justify tightening the leash around your neck?

Balam shakes his head, pitying, as though he’s already resigned at your defiance. He can easily overpower you, haul you out from this place, but it would only agitate the Dream Entity. Leraie doesn’t give you as much as a glance; she opens the cabin door and steps out. The door slams behind her, and the dog collars hanging by it hits the floor with a soft thunk.

Furcas lingers, Balam next to him, their glares sharpening with each second you waste in silence. Across the table, the fisherman looks at you, head tilted, confusion knitting his eyebrows.

“Did ye not enjoy the meal?” he asks, scratching the back of his head.

Balam lets out a slow, exasperated sigh before grabbing Furcas by the sleeve and shoving him towards the door. You can see it in their body language, that they’ve decided you’re a lost cause.

Good.

Because you actually are. Because you do the stupid thing anyway.

“Fuck you.”

Balam freezes at the threshold of the cabin, his hand curled around the doorknob.

“Fuck this entire farce. Fuck your precious Director. Sunday Oak, the great and mighty. Go ahead, leave. You won’t remember shit anyway.” Your throat burns, but the words keep spilling out. “Oh no, boo hoo, he’s going to be so angry for losing his newest pawn. What a tragedy.”

Your hand finds your untouched plate—it’s still warm, still smelling of something meant to evoke comfort—and you hurl it at the door.

The old man’s mouth hangs open, his face flushing a deep, ugly red.

Sensing danger, Balam doesn’t argue; he yanks Furcas out with him, and they slip through the door, the lock clicking softly behind them.

You swipe at the plates on the table, knocking them down to the floor. Food splatters, and the fisherman lurches forward, trying to catch your wrist. You twist out of his reach. You storm towards the shelves, grabbing the first frame your hand touches. It depicts you—it’s you, despite the blurriness—in your graduation robes. You hurl it against the wall with enough force to leave a dent.

“What—what are ye doin’?” the man demands, his voice rising as you seize another frame, then another, smashing them one by one.

You’ve broken the protocol. Not once, but twice, or perhaps, even three times over. Yet instead of fear, all you feel is a sharp, intoxicating sense of freedom. Your tear through the memorabilia, ripping through each relic, dodging the man’s grasping hands as he stumbles after you.

Don’t speak before the entity has extracted the necessary memory.

Too late. You’ve already spat venom at everyone.

Don’t touch the objects.

Too bad. Not only have you touched them, you’ve shattered each one into tiny, worthless fragments.

Do not provoke the entity.

He looks furious already, you think, but maybe you can push him further.

Somewhere deep down, you’re almost certain you won’t be able to walk away from this intact. But you don’t care.

“You think it’s funny?” you snarl at the man, voice cracking. “Stealing memories? Was your own life that fucking empty?”

You seize a crooked piece of pottery and smash it against the hardwood floor with vicious satisfaction.

“Stop! Please, stop!” the man cries out, voice strained.

You finally stop, sweat prickling at your brow. Your heart hammers against your chest as you hold yourself steady, standing amidst the ruin you’ve made.

You think carefully about what to say next; whether you’ll live to see another day or be swallowed whole by this place depends on your words.

“This…” you start, voice cracked at the edges. “This is my most precious memory. The catharsis I felt smashing every single piece of this place. Why? Because if I’m not allowed to cherish my old memories, then why should you get to?”

There’s only silence. The man gawks at you like you’ve grown a second head. And then, suddenly, he laughs. A wheezing, deep-belly laugh. He clutches at his sides as if you’ve told him the greatest joke in the world.

“Well now… ain’t you a curious little thing.” His beady eyes glint with something unreadable. “Unlike the others, I believe ye ain’t lyin’.” This seems to amuse him even more.

You don’t wait for him to finish his laughing fit. You turn, walking towards the door. “I probably won’t remember any of this once I step outside, just like the rest,” you say, not looking back at him. “But at least, I hope you’ll feast well tonight, old man.”

When you step outside the threshold, you still half-expect to find yourself standing before the cabin again.

But you’re back at the hotel. The familiar opulence of the Reverie hallway greets you.

The door shuts behind you, and as it does, you feel the memory unravel. It slowly slips away from your grasp. You can no longer recall the man’s laughter. You can no longer remember what his face looks like. A man? What man, you wonder.

Confused, you glance around.

All you remember is the briefing, then following your team down the hall. You turn to look at the plaque on the door beside you.

The Drowned Hour.

Your brows furrow; there’s something trying to claw its way back into your mind, just out of reach.

“Welcome back.”

You flinch.

Sunday leans against the door opposite of you, arms folded loosely behind his back. His mask gives no expression away; you can’t see the mouth beneath it, yet somehow, you know he’s smiling.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve returned in one piece,” he says, voice carrying the undercurrent of something colder. “I trust the extraction went well?”

It doesn’t sound like a question. Rather, it almost sounds like he’s testing how you’ll react.

“Or perhaps not? After all… you arrived later than the rest of the team.”

You swallow thickly. You don’t know why, you can’t remember anything past the door’s threshold, after all. There are vague impressions lingering behind your closed eyelids—shapes of broken objects, and the echo of a wheezing laughter. But none of it makes sense.

“But, of course,” Sunday continues. “It’s no issue. The important thing is you’re back. Unharmed.” There's a pause. “I have already collected the material from the rest of the team. But, perhaps, the two of us should talk, don’t you think so? I did promise you a mask, once this mission was complete.”

You nod stiffly, falling into step behind him.

As you walk, you slip your hand into your jacket, pulling out the small capsule. The Dream Essence sloshes faintly, the thick green liquid catching the light of the corridor lamps.

But this green… it isn’t how it looked in the briefing document. It’s not the bright green you expected. This one carries an iridescent sheen to it, subtle hues shifting as though they’re layered over the color, hints of violet that bleeds into soft sky blue.

And when you hold it up against the nearest light, it almost seems to pulse.

[REVERIE ADMINISTRATION, MANUAL CASEFILE: RA-D-21-07-B]

Dreamnode Codename: The Drowned Hour

Node Classification: D-Class

Containment Status: Contained, Monthly Extractions

Primary Access Point: Reverie Hotel, Floor 21, Room 07B

Dreamnode Overview

Access to Dreamnode results in immediate spatial transition to an environment resembling a frozen freshwater lake surrounded by a dense pine forest. Upon traversal of the lake’s surface, the subject’s personal memories will manifest as visual and auditory reflections and hallucinations within the ice sheet.

At the center of the lake is a humanoid Dream Entity (“The Fisherman”), visually presenting as an elderly male engaged in perpetual fishing.

Upon interaction, the entity shares fabricated personal anecdotes which gradually evolve into distortions of the subject’s own memories. These recollections are presented as though experienced directly by the entity itself.

The fishing ritual concludes with the retrieval of a piscine specimen. The entity will then extend an invitation for a shared meal within the entity’s residence.

Field Manual Summary

No verbal or physical engagement with the entity. Consumption of food or drink is prohibited.

Upon completion of the meal, the subject must affirm that the shared experience constitutes a “precious” memory. Confirmation will prompt the entity to extract and consume the designated memory. Subject will be permitted to exit the Dreamnode.

Failure to comply with protocol may result in permanent memory alteration, or irreversible entrapment within the Dreamnode.

Post-exit, the subject will undergo memory erasure within 10-15 seconds.

[REVERIE ADMINISTRATION, INTERNAL LOG — ACCESS LEVEL: ███]

Clearance Level: ███ Only

Access Granted to: █████ ███ & █████ ████

Post-Exposure Evaluation: Subject #████

Subject #████ deviated from established protocol during the extraction procedure. Subject initiated unsolicited verbal engagement with Dream Entity, and team members post-meal. Subject refused to complete the extraction protocol, specifically neglecting the verbal affirmation necessary to trigger Dreamnode conclusion.

Observed behavioral anomalies include elevated emotional volatility, and the display of a significant anger response. Direct defiance of chain of command. Disregard for safety protocols, including physical disruption of Dreamnode constructs.

Filed by: Operative Furcas