The group slowly descends the dark staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last. A strange pressure coils in their chests, squeezing tighter with every inch of darkness they sink into. The air grows thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves are waiting for something.
"I can't see," Calen blurts out, his voice breaking the suffocating silence. He presses a hand to the wall, expecting stone or metal, something familiar, but what meets his fingers is neither. It's smooth yet textured, shifting under his touch in a way that makes his stomach twist.
Behind him, Lyra smacks the back of his head. "None of us can, you doofus."
Calen rubs the sting away but doesn't respond. The sensation of the wall lingers on his fingertips, like an imprint of something watching him back. He is scared shitless, but oddly enough, the thought of turning around and leaving never crosses his mind. The deeper he descends, the more it's like his Soul sings a beautiful choir directly inside his head.
The descent stretches endlessly, time distorting with each step. Finally, Ronan stops. Calen, distracted, collides into him with a dull thud.
"It's another door," Ronan mutters, voice hushed. He glances back at their barely visible silhouettes, waiting. When no one objects, he exhales and pushes it open.
The darkness vanishes.
A vast, opulent manor stretches before them. A grand chandelier casts a dim glow over polished mahogany floors. A long dining table, capable of seating twenty, dominates the space, its surface untouched, waiting. A sweeping staircase curves upward, disappearing into unseen heights.
A voice, silken and cold, cuts through the stillness.
"Greetings."
A figure glides from a distant doorway, its presence warping the air around it.
It wears a pristine three-piece suit, its posture eerily perfect. But where a head should be, there is only a smooth, gray mass of flesh. Two beady black eyes glint like polished stones, reflecting, observing, too aware.
A shiver claws its way up Calen's spine. The voice alone is wrong, twisting in his gut. For a moment, he's certain his heart stops beating.
"Welcome to…" The figure lifts an unnaturally long, pale finger, gesturing toward a massive window. Beyond it, a metropolis sprawls, a mirror of Chicago, yet distorted. The sky is black, impossibly so. No stars, no moon. Instead, violet and blue lights flicker across the skyline like dying embers, pulsating, alive. "Metropolis." The figure pauses for an awkward amount of time, "I'm Tutuphu, The Keeper of Metropolis, and your humble servant."
Ronan's voice barely escapes his throat. "W-what…?" For such a brave person, even he wants to run.
The figure clasps its hands together, adjusting its tie with mechanical precision. "New arrivals, I see. Tell me, do you understand your Soul?"
Before Ronan can react, the thing moves.
Its finger presses into Ronan's stomach. Not hard, but not gently either. Just enough.
Ronan chokes on his own breath. He tries to push Tutuphu's finger off, but it doesn't budge.
Calen looks over at Lyra, even she has lost her cool. It all feels too... fake. Everything happening and once, that loud but oddly alluring ringing in his head, the impossibly large structure underneath the earth, and the... thing... Tutuphu.
"What the fuck." Calen repeats in his head over and over again.
The loud ringing in his head distracts him from Tutuphu's and Ronan's conversation, but suddenly, Calen is snapped out of his trance onto the conversation as...
Ronan gasps, paralyzed, his body betraying him. His breath turns ragged as something burns. The weight from the staircase, the unnatural pressure in his chest, ignites, traveling up his spine, searing.
His back splits open. Parts of his bloody spine visibly.
A sickening crack echoes through the room as flesh tears, spilling warm blood down his back. A handle, gray, metallic, patterned like scales, pushes free from the wound, dripping red as if rejecting the body that bore it. A ruby dragon coils around the sheath, gleaming in the dim light.
Ronan screams.
He grabs the thing's hand, pushing with all his might, but the damage is already done. Blood pools at his feet. His vision blurs. The pain is unbearable until it isn't.
The sword makes a dull thud as it falls out of his back and collides with the floor.
Just as suddenly as it came, it fades. The wounds seal. The blood vanishes. The agony, the trauma, it all feels distant, like a memory that doesn't belong to him.
"There we are." Tutuphu removes its finger, folding its hands once more.
Ronan stumbles, panting, his hands trembling. "W-what did you do to me?"
Tutuphu doesn't answer. It simply gestures behind him.
Ronan turns. The blade lies on the ground, waiting.
"That, Ronan," Tutuphu intones, "is your Soul. Pick it up… Pick up the Ruby-Dragon Blade."
Lyra steps forward, fists clenched. "Who, no. What the fuck are you?" Her voice is sharp, but there's a tremor beneath it. "This has to be some elaborate joke. I'd oughta kick your ass, you frea—"
The finger pierces her stomach before she can react.
Lyra chokes, her scream catching in her throat. Something snaps inside her wrist. Blood spatters onto her face. She gasps as a circular wound splits open, and from it, something small and metallic forces its way free.
A watch.
Perfectly clean. Pristine. As if it had always been there, waiting beneath her skin.
"Projector," Tutuphu states. "Your Soul. You can project duplicates of yourself. A simple party trick." It releases her hand, disinterested. "I expected something more."
It turns to the remaining two. Calen feels ice crawl up his spine as its gaze locks onto him.
Kaitlyn moves before he does, stepping in front of him like a shield.
"What are you doing to them?" she demands.
Tutuphu watches her, unblinking. Then, slow, too slow, it extends a hand. "I am merely helping them awaken what was already within them. Would you like to see?"
She hesitates, then steps forward, allured by the promise of power. "It's gonna hurt?"
Tutuphu clasps its hands together. "A lot. Only while it's happening."
She exhales sharply and closes her eyes. "Do i—" The finger plunges into her stomach.
Her left hand melts. Flesh dissolves, revealing raw bone. She watches in horror as a metal hand emerges from her arm, replacing her missing one. A metallic box protrudes, a small opening facing outward.
Tutuphu inspects it. "Iron Grasp. An ever-changing string. The thickness, material, length, and strength are all dependent upon you, Kaitlyn."
Then, it turns to Calen.
"Now you, son. Are you ready?"
Calen, horrified, shakes his head. "No! I don't... I can't do that!" He backs up, bumping into the wall.
Tutuphu sighs, adjusting its tie. "Your call... but I've heard of quite gruesome accidents involving those who can't summon their Soul."
Calen circles the room, hiding behind his friends. Tutuphu watches, unmoving.
"Well then, I shall see you off on your grand descent."
As if compelled, the group moves toward the massive doors. The thought of leaving never crosses their minds, only the urge to move forward.
"Actually," Tutuphu stops them, "I doubt any of you are strong enough to break the seal and enter Metropolis. You'll be going that way." It gestures toward an elevator.
The group pauses, as if they come to terms with what's happening all too fast, they change directions towards the shabby looking elevator placed in the middle of the grand staircase.
Calen though... is still focused on that loud ringing in his head. It makes it hard for him to focus on anything.
He wants to run.
Run anywhere, anywhere but outside of this dark city for some odd reason.
Throughout the loud chaos is his mind, he makes out a few words in his head, "How come they are so calm?" He questions while looking at his friends.
They all pack into the cramped elevator, and just like clockwork, it closes right after entering. They slowly descend, never taking eyes off Tutuphu.
Tutuphu watches them disappear and scratches its head. "Did I tell them about their dormant abilities?"
The elevator dings.