The air splits open like tearing flesh. A wound in reality itself, black and writhing, spilling something into a world that does not want it. Her. Lii stumbles forward, bare feet hitting cold pavement. The air here is different—thicker, heavier, filled with something wrong. Or maybe it’s her. Maybe she’s the thing that doesn’t belong. Behind her, the wound shifts, dark tendrils curling inwards, collapsing. He stands just beyond it. A shape that isn’t a shape, a voice that isn’t a voice. If...