While Amelia and Alexis stepped into the spiral core, the forest watched.
It had no eyes, but it remembered everything.
Every root. Every breath. Every scream ever muffled beneath the soil.
In the outer city—now strangled by vines—people wandered in trance, whispering numbers:
"303... 5... 3... 0..."
The spiral wasn't just underground anymore. It was blooming in minds.
In one crumbling tower, a child stared into a mirror.
The glass spiraled.
Her eyes turned black.
---
Inside Room 000, time warped.
Alexis saw herself—five versions of herself.
One was still a child, scared and dreaming of rain.
Another was a soldier with roots in her lungs.
Another whispered: Don't trust the sun. It lies.
Amelia stood frozen before the console.
The spiral above no longer threatened.
It invited.
> "You were never made to solve the mystery," said the mirrored entity.
"You are the mystery."
Suddenly, from her chest, a flower bloomed—flesh, blood, and memory wrapped into petals.
Alexis reached toward it, not to stop it—
But to remember it.