Drayke trailed behind the puppet, tuning out everything else around him. It stopped beside an ancient machine long since claimed by time. With a sudden slap, the puppet jolted it back to life. "Why don't we play a game?" it chirped, voice high and eager, like a child desperate for attention.
Displayed on the screen was something straight out of an old-world textbook—a slot machine interface, glowing dimly with five hundred credits. Each spin costs twenty-five. Drayke gripped the worn lever on the side and gave it a pull. A cheerful jingle played as the reels spun, ticking rhythmically before halting with a harsh buzz—no winnings.
"Aww, that's too bad! Let's try again!" the puppet chirped, undeterred and far too enthusiastic.
Drayke pulled the lever again, curiosity piqued despite himself.
Chk. Chk. Chk.
The reels spun and locked into place—three sevens in a row. The machine erupted into celebratory music, lights flashing in chaotic rhythm.
"Wow, mister! You must be fortunate!" the puppet clapped its tiny hands, voice bubbling with glee. "Only the lucky ones get to come on back for a check!"
The puppet began to float away, humming that eerie lullaby once more. Without hesitation, Drayke followed, boots squelching against the sticky floor.
"I just have to play to the game," he muttered under his breath, as much to convince himself as to ward off the absurdity of it all. This was madness.
The puppet vanished behind the counter, only to appear with a new face. This time, it bore the likeness of a different soldier—bald, with a jagged scar running down the left side of his face and a gas mask split clean in half. His brown eyes seemed too real for a puppet.
"Here you are, mister!" it chirped, holding out a rusted key. "That's the key to the back. Congratulations on the win!"
The puppet pointed toward a door untouched by rust or blood, starkly contrasting the filth-stained lobby. Drayke snatched the key from its hand and walked over, hesitating only momentarily before unlocking the handle.
The door creaked open, revealing a narrow room lit by a single flickering bulb. The rest of the room was empty.
He stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind him with a metallic clang, and the light above sputtered—then died.
Drayke drew his sword, the faint glow along its edge giving him just enough light to see. One look around, and he knew—he was no longer in the casino.
DING!
The metallic door behind him shimmered, warping and expanding until it became a set of ornate double doors. They creaked open independently, revealing a vast chamber stretching endlessly in all directions. A heavy silence hung in the air.
At its center, bathed in a soft, ethereal glow, was a lone bed—pristine white sheets tucked tight, the mattress perfectly still.
Surrounding it was a rippling pool of thick, dark red liquid.
Blood. Or something pretending to be.
Drayke tightened his grip on the sword.
As he approached the bed, Drayke stopped at its edge.
There, lying atop the white sheets, was another humanoid goblin. Its features were unsettlingly delicate, like the twisted reflection of a fairytale princess awaiting a lover's kiss. Its eyes remained closed, its hands folded neatly over its chest, and its lips curled softly and passionately.
Drayke hovered his sword over the creature's chest, breath held tight in his throat. But as he prepared to drive the blade down, something resisted.
His arm trembled.
Not from fear, but from something else entirely.
It was like an invisible weight pressed against him, pulling his strength away. A pressure deep in his mind, like velvet fingers coiling through thought, coaxing him to stop to admire, to give in.
No.
Drayke staggered back, instinct overpowering reason. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't human. No matter how much it pretended to be.
It smiled too perfectly. Slept too still.
An abomination.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. This wasn't just some illusion or dream. It was something born of twisted magic, waiting to consume him when he let his guard down.
The creature opened her eyes slowly, heavy, drowsy, like someone roused from a restless sleep. She blinked once, twice, then turned her gaze toward Drayke.
A soft smile spread across her face.
Not one of malice.
Not even surprise.
Joy.
As if he were the very thing she'd been dreaming of.
"Honey, you're up early."
The words struck like a thunderclap in the stillness.
Before Drayke could react, the world around him twisted. The endless, blood-slick expanse vanished, replaced by a modest home's warm, flickering light. Wood-paneled walls. The faint smell of cinnamon. A gentle breeze fluttered lace curtains.
He was no longer standing. He was seated at a kitchen table, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.
His sword was gone. The weight that once anchored him to reality vanished.
That's when it hit him.
He had fallen into her dreamscape.
Panic gnawed at the edge of his mind. This was the worst-case scenario. In here, her rules reigned. Her delusions could twist his thoughts, chip away at the wall he'd built to protect himself. If he lingered too long, he wouldn't just lose the mission… He'd lose himself.
Drayke clenched his fists beneath the table, forcing himself to breathe steady. Think. There's always a way out.
He just had to find the crack in the illusion—before it became his new reality.
~
Strings pulled at Kaldros, dragging him out into the street like a puppet on display. Grayson slashed wildly at the air, desperate to sever what he couldn't see.
"YO, GIANT! Something's trying to steal the Sergeant!" he roared.
But Ironheart didn't move.
Frozen in his obsidian armor, the towering figure stood like a monument—silent, still. Grayson couldn't tell if the man inside was alive, unconscious, or already broken. Either way, he needed to deal with the problem at hand.
Grayson hurled his daggers at the faint trace of mana he could sense, but they sliced through nothing—completely useless against the invisible strings. He rushed to grab Kaldros, planting his feet, but the pull was too strong. His boots screeched against the floor as he struggled to hold him back. Kaldros was already pressed up against Ironheart, being dragged harder with each passing second—like whatever was pulling him expected even the obsidian golem to topple eventually.
On one side, the giant was being driven back by the relentless swarm of goblins. On the other, he was being shoved forward by the unnatural pull of an invisible puppet master—with Grayson caught in between, desperately trying to ease the strain.
"What the hell, dude! Did you fall asleep or something?" he shouted, gritting his teeth.
Outside the doors, a rising battle cry pierced the chaos. At the edge of the street, a fresh wave of soldiers charged into view—Colonel Solomon at the front, his metal spear gleaming in the dying light.
"Not a single one escapes!" he roared. "We end it here. We kill them all—now!"
They stabbed into the horde of goblins, a force of righteous fury cutting through the chaos. And they weren't alone—other units from the Third Brigade surged in, sweeping across the battlefield like a rising tide.
Major Elira descended with them, her angelic wings unfurled in radiant defiance, a living symbol that this mission would not fail.
At that moment, Ironheart fell forward, the obsidian giant crashing to the ground. The final shove from Kaldros had been enough to topple him. With the giant fallen from exhaustion, the goblins turned their attention elsewhere, flooding into the streets to protect the casino. Grayson cursed under his breath and leapt after Kaldros, vanishing into his shadow without hesitation.
"No idea where you're leading us, Sergeant, but looks like the hotel's about to be secure." Grayson watched from his shadow as Kaldros was dragged into the Casino.
~
Drayke sipped his coffee. Had this always been his life?
The woman leaned over his shoulder, arms wrapped gently around his chest. If not for the subtle green tint of her skin, he might've been completely drawn in.
The illusion cracked.
He snapped back, dropping the coffee mug. It shattered on the floor, coffee spilling in every direction.
"Sorry," he muttered. "You startled me."
She crouched down to clean the mess, smiling up at him with unnerving calm.
"It's okay, hun. I know your deployment was long... and hard. Oh, a few of your friends said they'd stop by earlier. They should be here any minute now."
The doorbell rang—cheerful, familiar, almost too perfect.
Drayke raised a hand gently to stop her. "I've got it. Don't worry."
As he made his way to the door, his eyes caught a mirror in the hallway.
He froze.
His reflection stared back—hair neatly slicked back, no longer the short, battle-worn mess he knew. He wore a crisp, business-casual outfit, tailored and tidy. It looked normal. It felt wrong.
The fabric clung to him like a second skin. Tighter than a uniform. More suffocating.
He hesitated—but opened the door anyway.
Three unfamiliar faces greeted him with unsettling warmth.
A short woman with shoulder-length black hair waved enthusiastically.
"Drayke! It's been so long!" she said, throwing her arms around him.
The hug was tight, too familiar. His body stiffened, unsure how to react.
Behind her stood a tall man with a scar carved down the right side of his face—clearly a battle wound. He smirked as if they shared years of inside jokes.
"Look at you," he said. "Good to see our squad leader again."
To the side, a heavier man lingered awkwardly. He smelled faintly of peanuts, his curly hair disheveled beneath thick, smudged glasses. He barely looked at Drayke, instead casting an envious glance at the woman still holding him.
"Hey, that's long enough," Drayke said, gently prying himself free from the woman's grip.
He looked over the trio, uneasy. "Are you the only ones here?"
The question hung awkwardly in the air. He didn't know why he asked it—only that something was missing. Someone. His chest had a strange pressure, like an expectation he couldn't name.
The three exchanged glances, something heavy passing between them. The scarred man stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Drayke's shoulder.
"Williams didn't make it," he said quietly. " He was… damaged beyond repair. He was disposed of."
The words hung cold in the air, sterile and final. Disposed of like trash. Not buried. Not mourned.
Drayke's stomach turned.
At first, he hadn't noticed—it was like his eyes had filtered it out, accepted it as normal. But now, looking closer…
Their skin.
It wasn't right. Not human. A sickly, subtle green hue clung to their flesh like rot under the surface.
It was the same color as hers.
His breath hitched. The room felt smaller. Warmer. Like it was breathing with him.
He pushed past them and stepped outside, desperate for air, for clarity.
Where the hell was he?
This wasn't Reno—at least, not the Reno he remembered. "The Biggest Little City in the World" had become a husk of itself, but this… this was some pristine suburban street, plucked from a postcard and dipped in a dream.
Perfect lawns. Empty sidewalks. Houses that all looked the same.
Drayke felt the weight of the world pressing against his skull, a pressure behind his eyes like he'd just woken from a coma and remembered something important.
"Sorry, guys," said the woman posing as Drayke's wife from the doorway behind them. "He's just been through a lot since he got back. Try to go easy on him, okay?"
Was it all a bad dream? A delusion? No—this world wasn't right. This couldn't be reality.
Drayke turned to look behind him.
They were staring—too still, too calm.
They were not here to help him.
They were here to feed on him.
His fists clenched, and he bolted.
He needed a weapon—anything.
He couldn't take this anymore.