Lance didn't open the door.
The door opened to him.
No handle. No mechanism. Just a frame and a crack of impossibility yawning wider until the pressure in his skull whined and his fingers curled instinctively away.
Dani's voice was distant now—the real Dani—muffled like she was underwater, trying to reach him, but failing.
He leaned forward.
And fell through.
He hit the ground already sitting. Already in the store. Not the distorted, dead-eyed one from before, but clean. Bright. Late evening light bled across the linoleum tile. There was music playing overhead—jazz, cheap and soft and meaningless.
He blinked, and the body blinked with him.
He wasn't himself.
He was.
He looked down at his arms—steady, uninjured, confident. His hands weren't trembling. They adjusted a coat sleeve.
Not his coat.
He adjusted his weight lazily against the counter, like he'd been standing there for hours. Like he belonged there.
The bell over the door rang.
A woman burst in, wild-eyed and frantic, wearing a cocktail dress torn at the sleeve, her hair messy like she'd been running for hours.
Lance's breath caught in his throat. Not with shock.
With recognition.
Dani's hand lingered in his, calloused fingertips brushing against his knuckles as if that simple contact anchored them both. She didn't let go.
"Dallas," she muttered, almost spitting the name. "Your friend. God, Rico—you should've known. He's been in the Black Ledger's pocket for years. Everyone in Delta suspected. I can't believe you kept defending him."
Rico's mouth formed words before Lance could stop it: "I thought he was just… desperate. Trying to make ends meet."
Dani's laugh was sharp, bitter. "Desperate? No. Stupid. That's what he was. Stupid enough to think he could dip his hands into the Ledger and not get burned. Stupid enough to put this—" she gestured at the jug, the thing that had rewritten lives before "—into circulation like it was just another contraband bottle of gin."
Her eyes locked on his, fierce. "Tell me you didn't know. Tell me you didn't see the signs."
Rico's body shifted uneasily. His hands flexed. His voice—smooth, practiced, utterly not his—tried to dodge. "I… I thought he'd listen if I said something. But he was my friend. I didn't want to push him."
The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, one stuttering into a nervous hum above them. Lance felt sweat bead at his temple. His body—the wrong body—kept up the act, but every word felt like splinters under his skin.
Dani didn't buy it. She stepped closer, searching his face. "You let him, Rico. You let him play games in that stupid black market, and now look what's happened. That parasite should've gone to Null Casings weeks ago. Instead, it's loose. It's rewriting people."
Her hand clenched around his shirtfront, tugging him down to her eye level. Her breath was hot, her words harsher now. "Why didn't you stop him?"
Something cracked in the air between them. Lance felt it more than heard it. Rico's mask—this smooth confidence—buckled for half a second.
"I should have," the voice admitted. Too quick. Too raw. His throat tightened. "If I'd called him out, maybe… maybe none of this would've—"
He stopped, but Dani didn't.
"Then why didn't you?" she pressed, relentless.
The wrong words slid out of him, rehearsed, defensive: "He would've been furious. You know how he got when anyone questioned him. He'd have shut me out completely."
"Better shut out than complicit," Dani snapped. "You don't coddle a man like him. You don't hope he comes around."
The headache returned, sharp and electric. The reflections in the freezer doors showed them closer than they were—her face almost pressed against his chest, his hand clutching hers like a vow. But in the reflection, Lance's own face stared back at him, horrified, silent.
Dani's voice softened, but it was no less cutting. "You cared about him. I know. But caring doesn't mean covering for him. Not when he's dragging the whole sector down with him."
Her eyes flickered—hurt beneath the anger. "Not when it could've cost you."
His lips parted, wanting to tell her the truth—that he wasn't Rico, that this wasn't his guilt, that he was drowning in someone else's sins. But the body betrayed him again.
"I thought he needed me," he murmured, voice breaking. "I thought if I stayed by him, he'd find his way out. I was wrong."
The admission rattled out like a confession. Dani's face twisted—sympathy and frustration colliding.
"You always did that," she said, quieter now. "You always thought you could save everyone. Even the ones who were already too far gone."
The milk aisle blinked again, just slightly out of rhythm with reality. The reflections in the glass whispered in silence. Dani's hand was still tight on his shirt, holding him as if to keep him from slipping away.
Lance wanted to scream. To tell her he wasn't Rico. That she was lecturing the wrong man, tearing open the wrong heart. But all he could do was watch as Dani's eyes softened further, her hand rising to cup his cheek.
"Promise me you won't do it again," she whispered. "Promise me you won't protect people who don't deserve it."
The lights buzzed louder. The reflections warped, one showing him nodding, another screaming.
His mouth—the wrong mouth—answered anyway: "I promise."
And the jug on the floor pulsed faintly, like it approved.
The knock came again. Sharp, deliberate—three beats. Myra. Or… something like her.
Dani froze, every muscle coiling. She hadn't noticed herself stepping between the door and Lance's figure—or Rico's—but her instincts screamed: don't let it in.
"It's—" Dani started, voice low, cautioning herself, "—probably Myra."
But her mind refused to settle. Shapeshifters. Doppelgangers. Anomalies mimic and wait. The recent chaos replayed itself in every flicker of light. Every heartbeat sounded like footsteps.
The knocking came a third time, firmer, impatient. Dani's hands flexed around her concealed weapons. The world had narrowed to the door, the figure outside, and the palpable tension humming in the air.
"Don't trust it," she muttered. "Not until I know."
Rico's voice was quiet but steady: "It's okay. Let it speak. Maybe it's not—"
"Not okay," Dani interrupted, sharp. She pressed back against the counter, one eye darting to the flickering lights, the other on the door. Her fingers itched for the launcher strapped beneath her dress. "I can't fall for them."
The knock softened, almost gentle, but there was no warmth in it. "Dani," the voice called, measured, calm—exactly like Myra. "It's me. Please, we need to talk."
Dani exhaled slowly, head tilting. The voice was… familiar. Comforting, even. But that didn't erase the knot in her stomach.
"Step back," she hissed, shifting between Rico and the door. "If you're real, you'll wait."
Another pause. Then a whisper, almost too soft to hear: "I know you don't trust easily. But we don't have time to argue."
Her breath caught. We don't have time… The phrasing, the urgency—it was Myra. Not an anomaly. Not a trick.
Dani's hands trembled slightly as she measured her options. If I let her in, we could be in danger. We don't have our Sector Delta gear. If I don't… we could lose precious time.
The third knock came—this one cautious, almost pleading. Dani's teeth clenched. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to trust.
Finally, she exhaled, decision slicing through the fear: she cracked the door open—just a sliver.
Myra's eyes were calm, steady. No distortion. No flicker. No anomalies hiding in the gaze. "Dani," she said softly, "I need your help. It's serious."
Dani's instincts screamed, but something in the voice—a human certainty—pulled against her paranoia. This is her. Myra. Not a shapeshifter. Not an anomaly.
"Fine," Dani said, letting the door open just a fraction more. "Talk fast. And keep your hands visible."
The lights outside flickered in protest, shadows stretching across the cracked parking lot. Dani's finger hovered near her launcher. Every instinct screamed stay alert—but she had to listen.
Behind the door, Myra's presence radiated steady calm, grounding against the chaos in Dani's mind. It was enough to slow the racing pulse, enough to remind her that some things—some people—were still human.
And in that narrow space, with the fluorescent hum buzzing overhead, the world seemed to hold its breath.
And just like that, the floor gave out.
Pain didn't fade.
It folded.
Lance hit the ground hard—his ground, back in the real Hollow Reach—but the agony stayed like fire stitched into his nerves. He curled in on himself, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth caught mid-scream. No air left. No breath to cry with.
It felt like his bones were being rewritten.
"LANCE!" Dani dropped beside him, grabbing his shoulders, trying to stabilize him, but her voice was an echo. Everything she said came a second too late, like it had to travel across some metaphysical delay.
Kenton didn't speak. His face was pale. The glow from his hands had stopped, but something was wrong in his eyes—something like regret behind layers of fascinated silence.
Dario froze. His eyes locked on Lance, then narrowed—he took one cautious step forward, then another. His nose twitched.
Then he stopped.
And backed away.
Not a growl. Not a snarl. Just retreat. Like something deep in his gut told him this wasn't Lance anymore.
His whimpering turned into silence.
Dario always stayed beside Lance, even when wounded. But this time? He kept his distance. Watching with ears back and posture low.
Then Lance screamed again, louder.
This time, his back arched off the floor as something shifted in his spine—joints realigning, ribs cracking, reknitting like wet chalk being twisted into new symmetry. His left leg, previously limp, snapped straight. His skin bloomed hot, stretched, then rippled.
Dani swore under her breath. "Kenton, what the hell did you—"
"I didn't do this," Kenton muttered, staring in something close to awe. "Something's rewriting him. Rebooting him."
Lance's fingers splayed across the floor as black veins surfaced along his arms—brief, like ink spilled under skin—then vanished. His jaw clenched, throat bulging with pressure, and—
Hair.
His hair, too short and uneven before, began to twist—strand by strand—into loose black curls, heavy with sweat. A patch of his cheek darkened as stubble thickened, then spread into the beginnings of a full beard. The facial hair came in clean, precise, well-shaped.
He was healing.
He was changing.
His body was no longer just recovering—it was becoming optimized.
The scream cut off into a low gasp, almost cool-sounding.
A voice—his voice, but deeper, smoother—escaped his mouth.
"...Dani?"
Her hand tightened on his arm, her face unreadable. "I'm here."
He blinked, his pupils contracting too fast. The agony didn't vanish, but it refocused. Contained. Tempered.
He looked at her, really looked, and for a moment—he smiled.
Not Lance's smile.
A sideways, sharp smile. Just a flicker. Just a second too confident for someone who'd been broken minutes ago.
Dani hesitated.
Her fingers loosened just slightly.
Kenton noticed. "What?" he said flatly. "You recognize that face?"
"No." Her voice was a little too quick. "No, I just—he's awake. That's good."
But her eyes didn't leave him.
They were searching.
Dario stood near Kenton, tail still, head tilted slightly. Watching.
He didn't move toward Lance.
He always moved toward Lance.
This time, he just watched—like he was waiting to see what walked in Lance's body now.
Lance's mind swam in a rising black sea. Memories that weren't his were stitching in through the gaps left by trauma—muscle memory, glances, postures, voices not his own. He tried to sit up and did—too smoothly.
No wince. No stumble. No grunt of pain.
His body just moved.
His mind rebelled.
This isn't me.
This isn't mine.
He turned to Dani and said, "Where's the car?"
Then he paused. Froze.
That wasn't what I meant to say.
Dani swallowed. "What car?"
"The getaway car," he replied automatically.
Another pause.
His face froze again, this time in horror.
"...Why did I say that?"
No one answered.
Kenton stood. His shadow stretched longer than it should.
"We need to move," he said, but not to hurry them. More like he was stalling. Watching. "Lance, if you can walk, then walk. If not..."
"I can walk," Lance said.
And he did.
Perfectly.
No limp.
No groan.
His shoulders squared naturally. His height felt different—like his bones had been resized, subtly rebalanced into someone taller, broader, cleaner. His center of gravity had changed. His voice had changed.
He looked down at his hands again.
They weren't trembling anymore.
They weren't even his.
Behind his teeth, he could feel something pulsing. Like a second heartbeat. Not alive. Not muscle. Something conceptual.
It whispered when he blinked too long.
You're almost aligned. Just let go. Let him through. Let him fix this.
Lance forced a breath into his lungs.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
Kenton gave him a sidelong glance. "There's a relay station down the next block. I think it's still clean. Might even have untainted power."
"Good," Lance said. "Let's get moving."
Again—not how he would've said it.
Again—Dani noticed.
She didn't say a word.
But she walked beside him with the wariness of someone who knew they were losing someone they cared about to a face that looked the same.