I didn't run toward the lake. I ran toward the horizon, toward the place where the park ended and the suburban houses began. But as I ran, the street stretched. The houses began to repeat—the same white fence, the same red mailbox, over and over again. A suburban loop.
I stopped, gasping for air. My chest felt tight—not from the wound, but from the sheer panic of the illusion.
"It's no use, Craig," my dad's voice came from right behind me. I spun around. He was standing there, but his face was blurring, the features sliding like melting wax. "This is the only place where you aren't dying. Why would you want to leave the only world that loves you?"
I looked down at my chest. Underneath the thin cotton of my t-shirt, a faint, violet light began to pulse. It was the mark of the Abyssal Art. Even here, in the 'perfect' world, the wound was catching up to me.
