An arrow pointed down a winding pathway, bordered by skeletal, willowy trees.

  Hera squinted. "Somebody else decide whether we follow it or not. I don't want to be the fool who obediently follows signs."

  Ian cocked his head. "So you want somebody else to be the fool to blame?"

  "Glad your comprehension skills are still working."

  Ian scoffed as he tried to swat away the massive bug that stuck to him, reeking of acid and a permeating, rotten odor. Victor had wiped the wonderful shoe print, but caught up quickly with a silent, eerie smile.

  He smoothly laced their fingers, and Ian scrunched his nose.

  "Revenge by wiping your bacteria on me?"

  "My affection, it seems," smiled Victor. "Is it absorbing well?"

  "My immune system's pretty resistant to diseases."

  Victor only squeezed their fingers painfully tight, making Ian grimace. He glared and turned away, briefly meeting Hera's disgusted expression by the twist of her lips.

  He said nothing, returning his attention to the fog-laden pathway, a bleak grey. In contrast, sunlight streamed from the light blue skies, creating a strange mismatch. Ian's stomach twisted, organs coiling into a knot, weighted and heavy.

  The sunlight's oddity was proved by its lack of warmth, casting goosebumps instead.

  Ryan rubbed his arms, sucking in a breath as Oliver clung to the corner of his jacket. "I'll take the role of the fool—I can't see any other path, and the trees seem endless."

  Ian's gaze landed on Oliver, who sniffled, matted petals from earlier clinging to his dampened hair. Those large eyes were pretty, glazed, tearful—

  And fake. The act seemed perfectly cultivated for Ryan's gaze.

  Regardless, they didn't have time to waste and took down the path. Hera strode off ahead, mumbling about third wheeling while her lover was at home. That alone had Ian pause. That prickly woman had a lover?

  He fell into his bad habit, observing her lean, muscular arms, revealed by a fitted black shirt. Then, an icy hand slid over his eyes.

  "You wouldn't be cheating on me, would you, puppy?"

  Fingers lightly tugged his muzzle, and Ian ground his teeth, smacking the other away. "Paws off."

  He shook his head, revealing the icy, fixed irises behind long fingers. Victor withdrew, but somehow, his comments, coupled with the cold dissection of his gaze, pissed Ian off.

  That bastard really said whatever he pleased.

  But then, a swaying flower caught his attention. Then another, and another, until the bone landscape flourished with colors blossoming at their feet. Foliage sprouted, and the white trunks faded to a rich brown as wind rustled through them.

  A new landscape, like an ombre that began in death and ended in life.

  Behind, the misted skeletal forest swayed lightly, bleeding into the bright fields.

  Ryan shuddered. "We couldn't be ghosts, right?"

  Ian blinked, judgmentally evaluating the other. It seemed he wasn't the brightest. "We might be."

  "What?" A wry smile took to his face. "You're joking, right?"

  "Anything is possible. We could already be dead—this could be a dream."

  After giving the younger man an existential crisis, Ian took to the field of flowers that tickled his boots. Ducking under a willow branch, the ends seized his hair, painfully yanking. Before he could go bald, another hand skillfully weaved into his hair, tracing cold to his scalp.

  Ian froze as it was untangled, glancing sideways to meet Victor's calm attention.

  Then, he turned away.

  More and more, did Victor's games become a mystery to Ian. The man dipped into dangerous territories, seeking sustenance for his drab life. Ian's little vengeance journey was merely an entertaining act. That, Ian knew.

  But boundaries blurred easily.

  Where did the act of affection and meaningless behaviour draw the line?

  His heart squeezed, as if fingers mercilessly drove into the soft flesh, tender and fragile. Hatefully so.

  Suddenly, a peal of sharp laughter sliced through, and a young child darted toward them—

  —through them.

  A hiss left Ryan as he bent, clutching his stomach where a boy adorned with a flower crown had darted through. As if they truly were phantoms.

  "Damn, that's cold."

  Oliver patted his stomach with furrowed eyebrows.

  "Ghosts," remarked Hera, observing the children playing in the flowers. "Looks like your silly guess might be right."

  Ryan grimaced. "I'd rather it wasn't, beautiful."

  The woman stiffened as her fingers fell to her belt, reaching for her polished spoons. Beneath the mask, one eye twitched violently. "I loathe cheating bastards."

  "Cheating?" Ryan startled, scratching the scruff of his neck. "I admit I have a bad habit—although you didn't give me your name either."

  Hera gestured to Oliver, who blinked innocently.

  Ryan's face warped. "Ollie and I are like siblings! We grew up together. Come on, I'm not that much of a bastard. Is that what I'm giving off?"

  Ian observed Oliver's thinning smile, darkened with irritation, when Ryan pleadingly glanced at him. Ian raised an eyebrow. "My opinion?" This was a culprit in his sister's death, wasn't it? But... "Pathetic, awkward, and unable to think before speaking."

  The Esper didn't behave accordingly.

  "...I think I'd rather just be a bastard, actually."

  "Go ahead."

  Ryan gave up protesting as Hera shot another skeptical glance. Most Esper-Guide relationships were far from pure, with the latter often dehumanized. Espers, once their energy rampaged, sought destruction and domination.

  The act of guiding could be said to be an intimate act—connecting with something akin to a soul. Compatibility was compromised by innate talents, as well as their relationship.

  A jolt brought his attention to the hand that had shamelessly taken his once more, and a breath fanned Ian's ear. "What're you thinking, Guide?"

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Ian scowled. "Try some variety. You've asked that too many times."

  "I'm afraid it can't be helped. It's the only question I want an answer to."

  How was he supposed to interpret that? Ian had almost wished Victor was the sort to view him as a tool—wish that there was no room to misunderstand any comments or behaviours. The frustration of uncertainty festered with every passing day.

  "Enough of your empty words."

  Victor squeezed. "Believe me, Guide, there are far fouler lies I could tell you."

  "Fouler than this performance you're addicted to?" remarked Ian, voice cold and unfaltering. Any vulnerabilities would be seized. "Who would think that it's hard to believe a man with unknown thoughts?"

  "I could make them known, if you asked."

  Ian scoffed, shaking his head. "Then? What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking," mused Victor as the breeze chilled their skin, Ryan's chatter with Hera melting into a distant buzz. "That I hope you don't forget your purpose here. Your vengeance. Your goal."

  Ian's gaze hardened. "What I still don't understand is what you're getting out of it."

  Victor smiled, fingers trailing a path of frost to his throat, to the curve of his hitched breath.

  "Your company, of course."

  Another lie, wasn't it? He twisted away, feeling the phantom imprints of fingerprints score into his neck. He returned his attention to the two frolicking children making flower crowns, beaming widely.

  Smaller versions of Ryan and Oliver, as their laughter startled the chilled air.

  Ryan's expression softened helplessly. "Is this a memory-related Rift?"

  They followed the pathway that followed the children's movements. A young man appeared and looped his hands under Oliver's armpits, spinning him around with a grin. "Now, did you make this, little Ollie? Isn't it pretty?"

  He poked the flower crown as he set Oliver down, and the latter bristled, dashing behind Ryan. "Don't touch it!"

  The other seemed used to the response, sighing helplessly. "Come on, your big brother needs some love, too. Do I get a flower crown?"

  The little Ryan, round-faced, nudged Oliver, who pouted. Then, the little boy's feet tapped away, lost in the tall flowers, before he hurried back with a larger crown. The young man bent to his knee, and Oliver plopped it onto his head with stubby fingers.

  "Pretty!"

  A chuckle escaped the man as his fingers traced it. "Very dashing."

  "Don't tell me we have to watch this nonstop?" Hera's voice cleaved through the nostalgia as she crossed her arms. "I'd rather gouge my eyes out."

  A false A-Rift with unstable wavelengths. It shouldn't be simple—but when Ian's eyes kept darting, he found nothing to tell of abnormality.

  At her comment, he glanced over. "You have the equipment to do it."

  She clicked her tongue. "I'd better test it out first."

  "You can try," shrugged Ian, leveling his gaze. "And we can see who ends up losing parts."

  Her eye twitched, but before she could retort, a rumble ripped through the ground. Similar to what they'd experience, and all bodies stumbled.

  "Mark!" came an abrupt yell.

  Ryan's eyes had gone wide, pale in horror, and Oliver circled his waist with a surprising amount of power, yanking him back.

  From the trees bordering the flower field, a skinned figure emerged. It staggered, steps crooked, coated in scarlet.

  "Ollie, Ryan, run! And don't stop running!" Mark yelled, rushing in front of them.

  He unsheathed the blade that hung at his belt, swallowing. Fear rooted his legs at the ghastly creature, but loyalty kept his arms straight. Even if the tremble of his fingers gave away his uncertainty, and his shallow breaths grew sparse.

  The human-like flesh lunged.

  And the result came predictably.

  The creature tore into Mark's body, dismembering it cruelly as his wretched screams shook the skies. Skin was shredded, muscles torn in a storm of vermilion, and a round shape soared across the flowers, splattering as it thudded heavily.

  The bystanders watched in silence, unable to touch the memory.

  A woman tore through the trees, branches clinging to her hair as a roar erupted from her mouth, a terrible, grieving cry.

  Her gun fired, shooting the monster dead, and she dropped to her knees before what remained—

  Mark's head. Eyes opened in terror and anguish.

  "Why did you insist on taking them out, you idiot?"

  Her narrow shoulders violently trembled as a guttural sob tore from her lungs, and she bent over. She cried her tears dry before shakily wobbling to her feet.

  Then, quietly, she collected the soaked parts of what remained as flesh squished in her fingers, and gently placed it in the passenger seat of her vehicle, parked hastily at the side. Her gaze lingered, tortured, before she drove off.

  The aftermath of carnage remained, permeated by the stench of flesh and blood.

  Ryan held Oliver in his arms tightly as his throat bobbed. His voice came hoarse, broken. "I'd forgotten this was the day. He... this was classified as a safe zone, and we'd wanted to go out."

  He'd gnawed on his lip until it bled.

  Ian furrowed his brows and exhaled. "If you can't endure it, blindfold yourself. We have to follow their memory, and it'll only get worse."

  Ryan gritted his teeth. "Let's get out of here quickly."

  And so, they continued.

  On the same pathway, the background changed from forest to flower field, and then to the steely, proud apartments in the Center. They, ghosts of memory, watched Oliver's life unravel.

  It'd been his sister, Rebecka, who retrieved Mark's parts. She held both children in her embrace and made a promise to protect them.

  Ian, feeling goosebumps nibble his skin, could guess her fate.

  It was only a matter of how.

  They continued once more, Hera clicked her tongue, and Ryan solemnly swallowed his sobs. Victor said nothing, observing with the alienation of an outsider. The path transformed from barren ground to grass and to streets.

  The memory played in fragments, and every time a new scene appeared, they'd be older.

  Ryan took a fancy to Rebecka, following her like a little duckling, face flushed red as she laughed.

  Oliver, two years younger than Ryan, chased him desperately.

  They ended up in a large room overlooking the city, proving their wealth, or the fruition of Rebecka's desperate attempts to grant them peace.

  The real Ryan's gaze never left her, seeped in sorrow and affection. Admiration. Contrarily, Oliver's pitiful mask flipped, marked in a steel coldness. Bitterness—jealousy. Hera frowned, glancing sideways at Ian.

  His stomach coiled. He recognized it too, and knew how jealousy could twist even a child.

  The pathway, only seen by them, now led out the door.

  Expectedly, the door soon swung wide, and the little Oliver dashed inside with streaming tears. "No! No, no, no! I don't like it!"

  Rebecka rushed after him, peeling away her scarf as she tentatively approached the couch. She swallowed, gentling her expression. "Ollie, I can only take one of you, and you're too little. Ryan's fourteen now."

  "No!" The child slammed a fist into a pillow. "You can't take him! You can't!"

  "Oliver." Rebecka's voice turned stern. "This is an organized experience to allow young Espers and Guides to gain experience. Ryan displayed Esper traits. I've staggered your enrollment in the Academies so we could stay together, but he needs experience."

  "No!"

  She drew a sharp breath, rubbing her temples. "I'm trying really hard, alright? I don't want Ryan to go there, but I'd rather he learns with me than without."

  Her footsteps sank into the carpet, passing the real Ryan. The Esper quietly lifted his hands as the fleeting ends of her wavy hair passed his fingers. They curled around nothing, clenching into a fist. Romantic or platonic, in the end, the woman had practically raised him.

  Hera, sprawled on the second sofa, watched them closely. Ian crossed his arms as Victor lingered at his backside. Rebecka gently lowered herself beside the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  "Three days, and I have some new snacks for you. How about it, Ollie?"

  The boy clutched the pillow, soaking his tears.

  She sighed softly. "Please, Oliver. It's been... difficult since Mark's death. But I want the best for you, so let me do what I can."

  Exhaustion now weathered her haggard face, thinner than it'd been at the first appearance. Ian estimated it had been two years since they witnessed Mark's death.

  The little Oliver sniffled, shaking his head.

  "Oliver. Ryan will be going to more Rifts soon, and you're not allowed yet—your Guide manifestation seems likely, but it hasn't come." Rebecka's patience wore thin. "I need you to get used to this. I know you're scared, but I'll be there with him—"

  A pillow smacked into her face, and she flinched. She threw it aside, irritation alight, when Oliver sprinted out the doors.

  "Oliver!"

  She tripped on the edge of the sofa, panicked, as she scrambled after. The door slammed shut behind her.

  The real Oliver, who'd been silent the entire time, tugged Ryan's sleeve. His bottom lip wobbled, tears brimming in his red eyes. "Ryan, don't follow her. Do you remember this day?"

  Ryan's breath caught in a whisper. "...The day she dies, isn't it?"

  "Yes! So don't chase her. I don't want you to see it—"

  "We have to." Ryan smiled, ruffling Oliver's hair, but his cheeriness didn't reach his eyes. "We have to in order to leave. And I've always hated that you had to endure that memory alone. It's not your fault, alright? We'll see it together."

  A silence bled between them, and Oliver released his hand, stepping backwards. He'd gone ashen—was that guilt that wracked his soft face?

  "I won't go."

  Ryan furrowed his eyebrows. "Ollie, come on. You're not a kid anymore."

  "No." Oliver shook his head, straightening his shoulders. His tears flowed freely. "I don't want you to see. We can—we can blindfold you—"

  "You had to endure that sight alone, but not now." Ryan sighed heavily at Oliver's despairing face, streaked with tears, and helplessly hovered at the door. He bowed his head, scratching his chin. "I'm going to head there first—the scene shouldn't start without all of us there, anyway."

  He disappeared through the pathway.

  Four remained. Oliver's back glowed in light, but his face took the shadows. Harshening his innocence. Darkening his gaze.

  Ian's eyes narrowed as he let out a mocking laugh. "What are you scared of him seeing? What did you do to fear the truth?"

  "Nothing!" snarled Oliver, his pretty face contorting.

  Ian raised his eyebrow. "Your expressions are finally matching. Stop pretending, and move, or we'll end up sharing graves. Use your damn mouth and apologize, and he'll choose to forgive you or not."

  "You don't know anything!" hissed Oliver as his soft curls brushed venomous eyes. "He doesn't need to know—we were happy!"

  "A happiness based on a lie," muttered Ian, hands curled at the handle. He could feel Victor's dissecting gaze on him, but forced his attention to remain on Oliver. "Is not worth living, because it takes seconds to shatter."