Sunless was crouched beside the P.T.V, carefully helping Effie out of the seat and into her chair. He'd already paid the driver in advance, anticipating that she'd be in no condition to deal with it herself—and he was right.
Effie was all but sliding into sleep, her limbs loose and heavy with fatigue. A potent cocktail of greasy food, alcohol, over-socialization, and the steady pull of her Flaw had left her blinking slow and slurring her yawns.
Sunny, as always, seemed unaffected. He barely felt the cold night air, but his fingers moved gently as he adjusted the footrest of her chair. Then, without thinking, he checked his communicator again.
Still no messages from Rain.
Or anyone else, really.
Just two unknown numbers had wished him a Happy Birthday. One, he was sure, came from the Party Pet. The other? A mystery. No hints, no name—just a short and cheerful "Happy Birthday :)" and silence.
He sighed and tapped the screen off.
"Hey, Effie," he said casually, voice pitched just loud enough to keep her from slipping under. "We're home."
She yawned so wide it popped her jaw, then lazily stretched her arms over her head like a cat waking from a sunbeam nap. But she stayed awake. Barely.
Sunny unlocked the front door and nudged it open. He'd promised Rain they'd be back before ten, and judging by the sky outside and the clock in his head, he was right on time.
The house was dim—lights off, but not silent. Faint murmurs echoed from down the hallway, the muffled tension of a drama show seeping through walls and doorframes. It was almost cozy. Too quiet, maybe, but not in a way that raised alarms.
Effie was already wheeling herself toward the kitchen, likely in search of water or juice or anything sweet. Sunny shook his head fondly and padded toward the living room.
Thanks to Pride—the quiet, watchful third shadow always wrapped around his senses—he already had a mental image of the scene inside. A trio of half-asleep kids lounged on the couch, hypnotized by flickering screens. The show they were watching, however, definitely *wasn't* one he'd call "age appropriate."
He smirked. Of course. Leave two nine-year-olds and a thirteen-year-old alone for a few hours and suddenly *The Reckoning* becomes prime-time entertainment.
Slipping through the half-open door like a wraith, Sunny crept around the couch, ducking low before suddenly popping up and flopping down beside Rain.
"Hey! Whatcha watching?" he chirped, grinning wickedly.
The reaction was *immediate.* Screams. Flailing limbs. Popcorn flying. Brock and Blaze dove behind the couch. Rain very nearly punched him in the ribs.
He was laughing before the chaos even settled, half-listening as Rain launched into a flustered explanation about how *The Reckoning* was *actually very artistic,* and that *Anastasia killing motorcycle goons with a spear* was totally metaphorical. Very mature, very cool.
Sunny just grinned wider. "Sure. As long as Brock and Blaze don't tell their parents..."
He and Rain ended up talking a little more about the show—it involved a young Awakened girl fighting an extinction cult, apparently. Standard fare. Sunny mostly nodded along, only half-invested, until Rain glanced down at her communicator.
"Oh. Mom says she'll be here in about five minutes," she said. Not excited, not annoyed. Just stating it.
"Alright," Sunny replied. "Let's get everything ready."
The next ten minutes passed in a comfortable blur—getting the boys into their jackets, collecting toys, stuffing Rain's clothes and her *absurdly large* teddy bear into a tote bag. They were almost out the door when Rain suddenly paused and stepped behind Brock, who stood pouting near the threshold.
"Ahem. Sunny, Brock would like to apologize for... for taking the slice of cake you set aside."
That made the nine-year-old stomp his foot, arms crossed in pure indignation. "*It wasn't me!* It was the cat! The *cat* ate it and ran into the basement!"
Rain gave a patient sigh, already launching into her default *accountability talk*, when Sunny surprised both of them with a sudden grin.
"No, he's right," Sunny said, eyes twinkling. "It *was* the cat. That's the 'Friend' I told you about. I probably should've warned you, but I figured it'd just sneak in, grab the slice, and vanish."
Rain blinked. "Wait... seriously?"
"Yup."
Rain immediately turned to Brock. "Sorry," she said, voice genuine.
Brock didn't reply. He just looked smug as hell.
Soon after, Noble's P.T.V arrived to pick them up, and Rain, Brock, and Blaze disappeared into the soft hum of the night.
Now the house was silent again—silent and still.
Just Sunny... and Effie.
And that meant, finally, *finally*, he could finish the ritual he had started that morning. His own, private birthday gift. The one no one else could give him.
He glanced down the hall, toward the door that led to the basement.
The shadows shifted just slightly.
Time to begin.
'*'
"Soooo… why exactly did you drag me all the way down into your dingy little basement?" Effie asked, her voice lazily amused as she took a long sip of her caffeinated soda. The fizz crackled faintly in the dim light, echoing just a little too loud in the quiet, concrete space. "You hoping for a little privacy with me, doofus?" She gave him a mischievous grin, eyebrows bouncing suggestively.
She always joked like that—bold, unfiltered, teasing—but tonight, there was a drowsy edge to her mischief. The fatigue of the day still clung to her like smoke, and yet her sharpness lingered just beneath the surface, curled like a knife in a pocket.
Sunless didn't rise to the bait. He was kneeling by a wall-mounted shelf, attaching a sleek camera rig to his shoulder with quiet precision. The straps clicked softly as they settled against his armor. This was going to be hard to explain… especially to *her.* Not because Effie wasn't smart—far from it—but because this wasn't the kind of thing you said out loud without sounding like a lunatic.
But the thing waiting for him beyond the door… it might just change everything. Maybe even help them survive the Second Nightmare.
So here he was. In front of the old concrete wall at the far end of his basement—one he'd asked to be "renovated" into a sealed room, recently and discreetly. It was a blank space, a nobody's-room. Or at least, it used to be.
He sighed and turned to face her. Her eyes were expectant, half-lidded with amusement, completely unaware of what he was about to say.
"Yes, Effie," he said solemnly. "I want some privacy with you."
She choked on her drink.
"Wow," she gasped, blinking. "I heard that some guy were into crippels , but y'know I was joking—" Her voice dipped into a mutter. "*Mostly.* I'm flattered but I see you more as a fri-"
"Not what I meant, dummy," he cut her off with a shake of his head. "I need your help with something. Something *very* important."
He watched the shift happen in her eyes—almost like a switch flipping. The lazy, playful haze vanished, replaced by the crisp, cold sharpness of the huntress behind the clown. The woman named Raised by Wolves who, beneath all the bravado, was as calculating and dangerous as they came. A natural born predator.
"Alright," she said evenly. "What is it?"
"It's... complicated. And I don't have all the pieces. But remember when I told you I had memories? Not mine. Someone else's. And."
Effie nodded slowly. Her brow furrowed, but her focus didn't waver. Not even when he reminded her of how she'd teased it out of him before—how her casual jokes had cracked something that ruined the rest of that night.
"They're not just the memories of some random guy," he went on. "They don't fit how the world should function. I remember people using powers, objects that did impossible things —but it all happened in *Europe.*"
That got her attention.
Her back straightened slightly in her chair. "But that would be... before the Spell." Her voice quieted, her gaze distant for a moment.
Even Effie, who barely scraped through history, knew what that meant. Europe had been ground zero. Bombed to ash. The world had *ended* there long before the first Awakened had ever appeared.
"Sunny... don't tell me you're the reincarnation of a wizard or something." She gave a weak smirk. "Actually, wait—nah. You'd be a witch. Definitely more your vibe."
He exhaled, half a chuckle. "Not a reincarnation. Not exactly. But I *am* talking about something like magic."
There it was. Saying it out loud was strange. Heavy. It made the air feel thick in his throat.
"The guy I got these memories from—Az—he was part of a gang. They called themselves...Çelik,but that doesn't matter. What *does* matter is that they used these weird creatures. Called them *Friends.* And they could do... all kinds of things. Paranormal, supernatural, *impossible* things. Back at the Castle, I tried it. With the mirror game, and those things exist."
Effie said nothing.
He could feel her watching him—hard, unreadable—but didn't dare meet her eyes.
"I started another ritual this morning. This one's for a different Friend. It's almost done—I just need to accept the gift. I promise I'll explain everything properly after... but I have to finish this *now.* Time matters."
Effie blinked once. Her expression unreadable. For a long, tense moment, he wasn't sure if she thought he was insane—or if she was calculating whether she needed to restrain him.
But then she sighed.
"I'm expecting the *whole* story after this, Sunless," she said, voice low. "No half-truths. No weird evasions. You want me in, then I'm all in. So what do I do?"
The weight in his chest eased. Just a little.
"Thank you," he said softly. "Okay. I need you to stay here. *Do not follow me*, no matter what you hear. If I'm not back in an hour, send in Saint and every Awakened you can. Rain's mom too—she'll have contacts. Just tell them... tell them they need to get me out before midnight. After that, the door closes."
As he spoke, he summoned Saint from his shadow. Her armored figure stepped out soundlessly, a sentinel of gleaming marble and cold resolve.
Before Effie could ask what he meant by *get back from where*, Sunless turned and placed his hand on the door.
It should have led to bare concrete. Nothing but a bunker wall and silence. But instead, when he opened it, a strange, sweet scent spilled out—*cake and fruity alcohol*, thick and cloying.
A hallway stretched beyond, glowing faintly yellow, the walls dotted with irregular splotches of color—like melted confetti, or the bleeding ink of a child's drawing. It twisted downward, sloping toward some unseen end.
"I won't be long," Sunless said, more to himself than anyone else.
His heart was beating fast. Too fast.
Still, without another word, he stepped through the threshold—into the lair of the Party Pet—and closed the door behind him.
'*'
Effie took another long, scalding sip of her caffeinated soda, barely tasting it. The fizz bit at the back of her throat, but she welcomed the sting. At least it was *something*. For the past fifteen minutes and change—she was at fifteen minutes and thirty-four seconds, to be exact—she'd been staring at the door Sunny had disappeared behind like it owed her an explanation.
Her head hurt. Not just the kind of dull ache from too much sugar and stress, but the deep, slow-thudding kind that came from the creeping suspicion that the entire world might be quietly unraveling.
She leaned back in her chair, glaring holes through the basement wall.
"This has to be a fucking prank," she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. "Please let this be a prank."
Because if it wasn't—if this was real—then nothing made sense anymore. Again.
The first time her worldview got shattered, it had been the Sovereigns. Learning that the Song and Valour clans had broken through the Fourth Nightmare and become something *more*—literal demigods walking the Earth—had been like someone flipping the table on reality. She'd managed to reassemble some kind of framework afterward. Found her place. Did the work. Played the game.
But this? Magic older than the Spell? Monsters that didn't come from the Dream? Powers that *shouldn't* exist but clearly fucking did?
Yeah, no. If that was real, then the table was gone and someone had set the room on fire.
She exhaled hard and slumped deeper into the wheelchair's seat, legs stretched limp in front of her like dead weight. She clenched her fists in her lap until her knuckles popped.
It wasn't just that Sunny had gone off the rails with his wild-ass plan. It was how *stupidly* he'd gone about it. He'd stood there—eyes serious, voice grave—and told her, without flinching, that he didn't fully understand the thing he was about to throw himself into. And then he did it anyway. Alone.
Like a goddamn martyr with a hard-on for mysteries.
And she was just supposed to sit here, nod, smile, and be the responsible one? Be his damn lifeline if things went to shit? Without knowing what he was really doing? Without having any idea how to actually *help*?
She slammed her fist down against her thigh, the muted *thump* doing absolutely nothing. The nerves down there had long since gone dark. No pain. No resistance. Just limp flesh, quiet and unresponsive.
She stared at her legs like they'd betrayed her.
"Useless," she hissed.
Sunny had given her instructions. Call for backup if he didn't return. Alert every Awakened she could reach. Get Saint in there before the hour was up. That was her job—logistics. A fucking secretary with wheels.
She could plan a hunt . She could crack a skull. But now? She couldn't even stand.
And the worst part—*the actual worst part*—was that she couldn't even call it irrational. He was right. She couldn't go in after him, even if she wanted to. All she'd do was slow him down. Get in the way.
Didn't mean it didn't piss her off.
She should call Cassie.
The oracle had made her promise. *Watch out for him,* she'd said. *Make sure he doesn't do anything reckless.* Well, guess what, Cass—he'd done something *stupid,* and Effie was officially out of ideas.
Her fingers hovered over the communicator. She flicked to Cassie's name. Paused. Her jaw tightened.
He hadn't called her. Not once. Not since they got back from the Dream. The two of them had been *inseparable* once—like limbs of the same awkward, half-functioning creature. Now? They didn't even look at each other.
She didn't know what happened. And he hadn't told her.
Grinding her teeth, Effie lowered the device without dialing. She set a sharp, blaring alarm for one hour and tossed the comms onto her lap.
She was going to give him that hour.
He asked for her trust. She gave it.
But if he wasn't back by midnight, she'd make some *very* loud phone calls—and then she'd drag him out of whatever messed-up candy-coated pocket dimension he'd gotten himself stuck in, legs or no legs.
With a long exhale, she turned to the quiet stone figure standing vigil nearby—Saint, his summoned knight. All armor, silence, and judgment.
Effie glared at her.
"Your boyfriend's a fucking headache," she muttered. "You know that?"
The Echo didn't move, didn't speak. But somehow, Effie could *feel* the agreement radiating off her like heat from a furnace.
'*'
Sunless returned with ten minutes to spare.
The moment he stepped through that cursed door, smelling faintly of cake frosting and something far older and stranger, Effie wheeled straight toward him and slapped him across the face. Hard. The sound echoed in the basement like punctuation—like a *period* on the end of a very stupid sentence.
"You absolute jackass," she snapped, fury and relief tangling in her voice. "Next time you decide to pull a solo suicide dive into mad Funhouse, *maybe*—just *maybe*—loop in the girl whose job is watching your sorry ass."
And then—because her hands were still shaking, and she couldn't look at his face without wanting to hit him again—she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a hug. Tight. Fierce. No words. Just the thud of his heartbeat under her arm and the faint, unsteady exhale he let out as he relaxed into it.
She hugged him because she wanted to.
Once things had settled—her fists unclenched, her temper coiled back under her skin—Sunless sat her down and told her everything. Or at least, everything *he* knew. True to his word, he didn't hold anything back. He walked her through what he'd seen, what he'd learned, and what he still didn't understand.
But most of all, he showed her the video.
Effie's sharp eyes never left the screen. She drank it in—the warped geometry of the hallway, the colors too bright to be real, the flickering shapes that danced just out of frame. It was Wonderland if Wonderland had a small budget . Her excitement drowned out almost everything else, her mind sparking with question after question.
She almost didn't notice the things he'd brought back with him.
There were three.
The first was a pair of silver grillz, brutal and elegant, shaped like a wolf's snarl—razor-edged and gleaming, as if they'd been stolen from the mouth of something that still wanted them back.
The second was a book. Just a book, at first glance. No glowing runes or ominous aura—just worn leather and thick pages, as plain and heavy as a secret.
The third was a small copper cylinder, strange in shape, with odd little protrusions jutting out at angles like insect legs or antennae. It clicked faintly when tilted, as if something inside was shifting.
Effie, curiosity sharpening her voice, pointed at the haul. "Okay, what the hell are *those*?"
Sunless answered her, evenly and without theatrics. He was like that when things mattered—calm, almost quiet. It pissed her off and made her trust him more at the same time.
And then, he uploaded the video.