"Arena… let me in."
Freya's voice floated through the door, sweet and familiar, like it always had during their hostel sleepovers. The tone, the pitch, even the little giggle she always gave when Arena was mad—it was exactly the same.
Arena could almost picture her best friend's freckled face, the way she always twisted her red hair when she was nervous.
But it wasn't her.
Peter stepped in front of the door, hand glowing faintly again. "Don't move," he warned.
Arena's throat tightened. Her dark skin felt cold and clammy, her curly black hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. "But… it sounds like her. Exactly like her."
"That's what she does. That thing isn't your friend."
Scratch.
Thud.
The door shook slightly, then stopped.
"Peter," Arena whispered, "why me? Why now?"
Peter turned slowly, his face drawn. "Because the ritual has already begun."
Her heart dropped. "What ritual?"
He hesitated.
Then he pulled up his sleeve, revealing a faint mark on his arm—similar to the one now branded on her wrist.
"I was taken here five years ago, same way you were. Chased, branded, marked. But I escaped before the ritual was completed. You... you weren't so lucky."
Arena stared at the mark on her wrist, glowing brighter now, like it pulsed with every beat of her heart.
"I didn't agree to any ritual," she hissed, panic rising.
"No one does," Peter replied darkly. "That's the point. They choose souls with untouched energy. People like you—intuitive, stubborn, pure. They lure you in, mark you, then bind you to the realm. Once the ritual is complete, your body dies in the real world. Your soul stays here. Forever."
Arena gripped the edge of the cot, her mind spinning. "So how do I stop it?"
"You can't stop it… but you can delay it."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small dagger, ancient and carved with silver runes.
"Every mark is tied to a gate. And every gate can be broken. But breaking one comes at a price."
Arena eyed the blade. "What kind of price?"
Before Peter could answer—
BANG!
The door jolted.
Then splintered.
Not from the top. Not from the handle.
From the bottom.
Something was crawling in.
The bottom panel of the wooden door snapped apart and long, pale fingers dragged through the floor, curling around the edge.
Peter didn't wait. He shoved Arena back. "Go! Through the hatch!"
He pointed toward a trapdoor beneath the cot.
"No!" Arena shouted, staggering backward.
Her entire body locked up, caught between terror and disbelief. The fingers—long, pale, jointed wrong—curled tighter around the wooden floorboard, splintering it slowly, purposefully, like it wanted her to hear each crack.
"Arena!" Peter growled, dragging her by the arm.
But she couldn't stop staring.
The hand was unmistakably human in shape—but the nails were black, thick like claws. A golden bracelet dangled loosely on the wrist.
Her breath caught.
That bracelet.
She'd gifted that to Freya on her birthday last year.
"Peter," she gasped, "it is her—"
"It's wearing her," Peter snapped. "That's what they do. They become the ones we love so we invite them in. You let it fool you, it takes you. Soul first."
More scratching. Now louder. Hungrier.
Then—
A second hand joined the first.
Peter reached beneath the cot and yanked the hatch open. Cold air wafted up, thick with dust and decay.
Arena backed toward it, trembling.
"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.
"You can. You have to," he said, crouching by the hatch. "Down there is the first gate. If we break it, we buy time. But if that gets in here first—" he nodded toward the door, "we're done. You'll be bound before the next moon."
Arena nodded, heart pounding. She dropped to her knees and slipped through the hatch, landing hard in the darkness below.
Peter followed, slamming the trapdoor shut just as the door above exploded inward with a shriek that didn't sound human.
They were plunged into pitch black.
Only their breathing filled the silence.
Then Peter struck a match.
A small, narrow tunnel stretched ahead of them, lined with ancient stone and tangled roots. At the far end stood a gate. Not made of metal—but of bones, woven together and sealed with a pulsing red light.
Arena's mark flared in response.
"What now?" she whispered.
Peter handed her the dagger.
"You cut the binding. But remember... every gate fights back."
Arena approached slowly, heart hammering in her chest. The air grew colder, tighter, with each step. Her hand shook as she raised the dagger.
Suddenly—
A whisper echoed from the gate.
Soft. Broken.
"Arena... it's me. Don't you recognize your own voice?"
Her blood ran cold.
The voice wasn't Freya's this time.
It was hers.
Arena turned to Peter, terrified. "Why is it using my voice now?"
Peter's face paled.
"Because it's no longer trying to trick you," he said hoarsely. "It's trying to become you."
The bones of the gate began to shift, forming a mirrored figure in the center—her exact face, smiling coldly.
Her reflection stepped forward, dagger in hand.
"You're not the only Arena anymore," it whispered.
TO BE CONTINUED…