The buildings were wrong.
Not just tall or crooked-wrong. Kye stared up from beneath the awning of a collapsed vendor stall, trying to process the alien skyline that framed this nightmare city. Towers twisted like melted glass, windows blinked with a slow mechanical rhythm, and street lamps flickered even when there was no wind. The air buzzed with a low-frequency hum, like static crawling along his skin.
He'd made it. Past the woods. Past the manhunt. Past the lake.
He was in the city.
But it didn't feel like safety. It felt like being swallowed.
Boots crunching against glass shards, Kye stepped onto the cracked pavement, every instinct screaming, This is not the real world. It mimicked one traffic light, taxis, store windows—but the way everything watched was undeniable. Cameras turned when he moved. A mannequin shifted positions between blinks. The billboard above him read:
HELLO, KYE. NICE TRY.
His throat went dry—no heartbeat of cars. No voices. Only the ever-present buzz and the tap of his shoes.
"Where is everyone?" he muttered.
A voice answered from inside the alley beside him.
"We're here."
Kye froze. It wasn't a whisper. It was said in a casual, bored, confident tone.
From the shadows stepped a man wearing what looked like a stitched-together business suit made of old school uniforms. His face was white porcelain, blank except for a drawn-on smile and two red dots for eyes.
Kye backed up. "You… You're not real."
"I'm what's left over," the thing replied. "The glitch in your meaning. This is your reward, little genius. You survived the forest, you learned to kill… now you get to meet the city. The last level."
"Last?"
"For now."
Suddenly, dozens of similar porcelain faces peered out from building windows. A drone with blinking eyes hovered above. The billboard text changed again:
FIGHT BACK, OR BECOME PART OF THE BACKGROUND.
The thing with the stitched suit took a step forward.
Kye clenched his fists. His knees trembled. He was tired. Hungry. Mentally cracked. But he wasn't ready to give in.
"I'm not background."
He grabbed a broken road sign and stood his ground.
The porcelain thing didn't stop walking.
Behind him, the city's lights began to dim, one by one.
Then they all blinked red.
The alley walls warped. Windows screamed. And then the city moved.
—------
The ground beneath Kye's feet shifted, not trembled, but repositioned, like a stage under remote control. The city bent inward. The buildings leaned slightly, as if watching more closely. The street stretched, then snapped back, jerking Kye forward like a glitching video loop.
He barely managed to brace himself. The porcelain figure kept walking, undisturbed. Even the way it moved was off—its steps were too perfect, too steady, like it was synced to something beyond the normal flow of time.
"Why are you doing this?" Kye called out, voice hoarse.
"To see if you'll break again," the porcelain man replied, tilting its head. "You've held together so far. But everyone cracks, eventually. Even you."
Kye's grip on the metal sign tightened.
"You're not real," he repeated, half to it, half to himself. "None of this is."
The porcelain figure stopped, only meters away now. It raised a hand. Not in threat, but in command.
Around them, the world obeyed.
A bus behind Kye exploded into motion, tires screeching without warning, missing him by inches as it veered and vanished into a wall. Streetlamps twisted into long, tendril-like arms. Vending machines blinked open, filled not with drinks, but organs—neatly wrapped in cling film.
The billboard overhead changed again.
HOW MUCH MEANING IS LEFT IN YOU, KYE?
He staggered backwards, throat dry. Something inside him—the part that still believed this was a dream—started to fracture. But that same break gave birth to something else: rage. Desperate, terrified, primal rage. Nothing in the city. At himself.
Why couldn't he wake up?
Why was he still here?
The porcelain man stepped closer. "This is the test. This is the point. You want to survive, Kye? Prove you're more than just the sum of your fear."
"I didn't ask for any of this," Kye spat.
"No one does," the porcelain man said with a smirk drawn into its face. "But you're the one dreaming it."
Then it lunged.
Kye swung the sign.
Metal met ceramic. The thing's head shattered with a sharp crack—but inside, there was nothing. No blood. No circuitry. Just black dust that poured out like smoke and vanished before hitting the ground.
It collapsed, limp.
He didn't have time to process it.
Because dozens of others were stepping out from buildings, alleyways, and subway entrances. Porcelain faces. Stitched suits. All silent. All smiling. Some had elongated arms, some carried briefcases filled with rusted tools. All walked in sync. All toward him.
The billboard flashed again.
RUN, MEANING. RUN.
Kye did.
He bolted down the street, heart exploding against his ribs. The city warped behind him, reshaping roads, doors, and signs. The sky above glitched, flashing static and symbols he couldn't read. Blood pounded in his ears.
He turned a corner.
And ran face-first into a wall of mirrors.
The mirrors showed him, not once, but hundreds of times. Each reflection twisted, lagging behind his real movement. Some versions of him looked older. Some bloodied. Some smiled like the porcelain masks.
He backed away.
But something was reflected in the mirror behind him.
Her.
His sister.
Standing far down the street.
She looked… untouched. Still wearing her school uniform. Still thirteen. Still innocent.
"Lina?" he breathed.
But when he turned to look behind him, he wasn't there.
Just more empty road.
Just more cities that watched.
The mirror in front of him rippled, and his reflection whispered:
"She's waiting."
The porcelain chorus arrived behind him, footsteps in sync. The city closed the gap.
He had one choice.
Step into the mirror.
Or die.
Kye didn't hesitate.
He jumped.
—