The path grew narrower.
Not physically—Monica still had space to walk—but the darkness pressed closer, like the void was leaning in to listen. The air felt thicker, harder to breathe, and every step took more effort than the last.
"What were they?" Monica asked suddenly. "The ones in the alley."
Oliver didn't answer right away.
"That's not a good sign, is it?" she said.
"They weren't just people," he said finally. "Not anymore."
She stopped walking. "What does that mean?"
"The void doesn't always wait for someone to arrive on their own," Oliver said. "Sometimes it… sends pressure into the world. Weak points. Broken people. Desperate people. It doesn't control them like puppets. It nudges them. Feeds what's already there."
Monica's stomach turned cold. "You're saying they were… bait?"
"Or collectors," he said quietly.
The darkness ahead rippled.
The path dissolved beneath her feet—and reformed into wet pavement.
Rain fell in a thin, endless drizzle. Streetlights flickered overhead. Monica knew this place before she even saw the alley.
Her chest tightened. "No. I don't want to go back there."
"You need to see it," Oliver said, gently but firmly. "All of it."
The scene unfolded around them like a living memory.
There she was—walking fast, shoulders tense, keys threaded between her fingers. The two figures stood near the mouth of the alley, pretending to argue, pretending to smoke, pretending to be normal.
Monica watched them watch her.
One of them—a tall man with a hood pulled too low—tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to something she couldn't hear.
The other smiled.
"You see that?" Oliver asked. "That hesitation? That's the moment the void touches them."
The tall man's eyes went distant for half a second.
Then he stepped into her path.
"Hey," he called. "You got the time?"
Past-Monica slowed. Just a little. Just enough.
The memory-Monica whispered, "I shouldn't have stopped…"
"But you were tired," the Warden's voice drifted in from everywhere and nowhere. "And tired people make human choices."
The scene sped up.
Fear. Running. The turn into the alley.
But this time, the memory didn't cut away.
She saw it.
The shove. The way she stumbled. The way her head hit the wall at the wrong angle. The way the world tilted and vanished.
They hadn't meant to kill her.
But they hadn't meant to save her either.
One of them crouched, checking her pulse.
"She's breathing."
"Then let's go," the other said. "This isn't worth it."
They ran.
Monica felt something break open inside her—not rage. Not yet.
Just a deep, aching sadness.
"They left me," she whispered.
"Yes," Oliver said. "And the void took advantage of what they started."
The alley began to rot away again, melting into black mist.
"But here's the part you haven't seen," Oliver added.
The darkness shifted.
Light cut through.
Monica was standing in a hospital hallway.
Real this time.
Too real.
She could smell antiseptic. Hear hurried footsteps. A voice calling for a doctor.
She saw her own body being rushed past on a gurney.
And behind it—
Her son.
He was holding a social worker's hand, trying so hard not to cry. His backpack was still on his shoulders. Too big for him. Too heavy.
"Is she going to die?" he asked, his voice small and breaking.
The woman knelt in front of him. "She's very sick. But the doctors are helping her. Okay?"
He nodded. But his lip was trembling.
"I can be good," he said quickly. "I won't complain anymore. I'll do my homework. I'll— I'll help more. Just tell her to wake up."
Monica reached for him—
And her hand passed through air.
"No," she sobbed. "Baby, you don't have to earn me. You never did."
Oliver's voice was close now. "This is what you're walking back to. And this is what the void is trying to erase."
The scene wavered.
The Warden's presence pressed in again, heavy and patient.
"They will hurt him," it said calmly.
"The world always does."
"You cannot stop that."
Monica shook her head, tears streaming.
"But I can be there."
The hospital faded.
The path returned.
Far away, in the darkness, the Warden watched.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Waiting.
Oliver looked at her, something fierce and protective in his eyes now. "The ones who attacked you opened the door. The void is what tried to pull you through it. But you're still standing in the doorway, Monica."
She wiped her face, her hands still shaking. "Then I'm going back."
He nodded. "Then the void will stop asking nicely."
And somewhere in the real world, her son sat in a plastic chair, swinging his legs and whispering, "Please, Mom. Come back."
And for the first time, Monica felt it clearly—
Her heart, fighting its way back to her.