There were places in the city even the shadows refused to go.
Asher Blackwood had seen crime, cults, demons, and—just last week—a sentient vending machine that tried to sell him his own memories for two credits. But Redlight Sector? That was something else.
This part of the city didn't hide its rot. It turned it into art. Dreams were sold in bottles. Realities were optional. And the only rule was:
Don't ask who you were yesterday.
Midnight rain was the city's favorite cologne.
It clung to his coat like perfume and soaked through the silence of Redlight's narrow alleys. Neon signs buzzed like dying insects. Somewhere in the fog, a jazz solo wept itself to death.
Asher stepped over a snoring man painted in glow-ink, his body curled like a question mark beside an overflowing trash altar made of burnt cassette tapes and forgotten IDs. He didn't stop. Didn't look back. He was already late for something he hadn't scheduled.
A flickering sign blinked at him from across the street:
THE FORGET-ME-NOTDreams brewed fresh. Nightmares optional.
The door opened on its own.
Inside, the air tasted like purple static. Violet smoke curled in hypnotic spirals, drifting lazily from incense that pulsed to the beat of a half-remembered melody. Lanterns floated overhead—each one glowing with laughter, whispers, or sobs, as if they'd captured entire emotions and bottled them for ambiance.
A faceless pianist played a haunting lullaby. One Asher recognized.
But couldn't name.
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Mira – The Woman Who Wasn't Herself
She was waiting for him at the bar.
Wrapped in a kimono of living ink, swirling symbols and fractured constellations swam across its fabric. Her hair fell in pale waves to one side. Her eyes—silver and depthless—watched him like a ghost remembering something precious.
"You're early," she said, before he could speak.
Asher blinked. "I didn't make a reservation."
"You always say that," she replied, her voice calm, as if scripted.
She called herself Mira.
According to her, they'd met three times before.
None of them had happened yet.
"You gave me this scar," she murmured, drawing her fingers across her neck where a faint, jagged line shimmered in the light. "You also saved me from becoming something else. Something… wrong. And then—"
Her silver gaze darkened. "You killed me. Said it was mercy."
Something stirred inside him. A dull ache. A sensation like déjà vu wrapped in barbed wire. His Echo resonance scratched at the inside of his skull—unfamiliar timelines brushing against the skin of his thoughts.
"She's fractured," Wisp's voice whispered in his mind, faint and distorted. "Don't get caught in her orbit."
Too late.
He already was.
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Dream Bathhouse Sync – Memory Cleansing
Asher barely noticed when Mira slipped her hand into his and led him through a sliding panel behind the bar. The hallway curved—impossibly—before descending into warm fog and blue light.
"This is a memory bathhouse," Mira explained as glowing fish swam lazily through the air. "It helps stabilize fractal minds. Yours is bleeding."
"So is yours," he muttered, rubbing at his temple.
She smiled faintly. "Mine's not bleeding. It's already bled out."
The room beyond was filled with steaming pools and floating candle-spirits. Silk screens depicted impossible moments—wars that never happened, weddings that ended before they began. Asher sank into one of the pools, warm and thick with forgotten lullabies.
Then the syncing began.
Dreams collided. Memories layered over each other. He saw Mira as a child, running through a field of glass, laughing with someone whose face looked hauntingly like his. Then—suddenly—
—A private moment. A dream too raw to describe. One Mira definitely didn't want shared.
Her eyes snapped open.
"Stop narrating it in your head!" she shouted, cheeks crimson.
"I'm not! My Echo's doing it automatically—"
"Yeah, right! Keep your memory link where I can see it!"
Water sloshed. Voices echoed. Somewhere, a rubber duck laughed maniacally.
Asher tried to stand and slipped—because of course he did—and Mira landed on top of him, dagger drawn, pressed just beneath his jaw.
She straddled him with precision, eyes locked onto his like she was decoding a secret code in his pupils.
"Do that again," she whispered, voice like velvet and venom, "and I'll stab you… lovingly. But still stab you."
Asher grinned, despite himself.
"Honestly? Fair."
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Creepy Event – The Doll Parade
They emerged from the bathhouse soaked and humming with residual psychic tension. Mira offered him a towel and a threat. He took both.
Then came the sound.
Click.
Click.
Click.
A procession moved through a nearby alley, hidden in the mist.
Life-sized dolls. Dresses white as funeral smoke. Some in wedding gowns. Others in mourning robes. All porcelain. All cracked. All smiling.
Each one had a name tag pinned to its chest.
One read:
ASHER BLACKWOODAge 7 – Cause of Death: Forgotten.
Mira froze.
So did he.
"We need to go," she whispered, grabbing his wrist. "Now."
One of the dolls turned. Slowly. Like a puppet realizing it wasn't supposed to move on its own. Its eyes—black glass—locked onto Asher's.
Its painted mouth twisted.
"You were supposed to be one of us," it whispered.
Asher's instincts kicked in. Fire pulsed from his fingertips—an uncontrolled blast of heat and light. The dolls were engulfed.
When the smoke cleared—
—Nothing.
No parade. No dolls.
Just a single porcelain foot, cracked and twitching, left on the wet ground.
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Power Progression – First True Echo Merge
Back at an abandoned rooftop above the Den, Mira helped him set up a focus circle. Incense. Chimes. Old words.
Asher sat cross-legged. Eyes closed. Breath shallow.
He called.
And someone answered.
A version of himself—scarred, calm, no longer afraid. A self that hadn't run from pain but integrated it. Balanced. Broken. Whole.
The Echo Merge hit hard.
His eyes flickered silver. Movements sharpened. He dodged Mira's blade without thought. Caught her wrist mid-swing.
Time seemed to slow.
But so did the boundary between their minds.
Her fear.Her sadness.Her affection—subtle, aching, real.
He winced, the strain of the merge splitting his vision.
"I can't hold this version long," he gasped.
"You're not supposed to," she whispered, touching his cheek. "He's not you yet. But maybe… he could be."
They sat beside each other in silence after that.
The sky was breaking apart into gray.
Just before she left, Mira handed him a faded photograph.
Wisp was in it.
So was Mira.
And Asher.
But not this version of him. No—this one was older. Hardened. Eyes sharp with knowledge, face marked by time. Scars curled down one cheek like lightning in flesh.
On the back, in old ink, it read:
PROJECT MORROWSubject E-03. Do not awaken before sequence completes.
Asher stared at the writing until the words blurred.
He didn't know who this other version of him was.
But someone had planned for him to awaken.
And someone wanted to stop it.
[End of Chapter 12]
The porcelain doll's foot he thought he left behind?
It's in his bag now.
And it's humming.