"I may be good, I may be bad, I may be the same as the one you had," Shawn read aloud from the new riddle on the note. He grinned. "Awh… someone's feeling romantic. Adorable." He tucked the note back into his pocket.
They kept walking. The path ahead was peaceful, beautiful even, but they knew the calm wouldn't last. One final challenge stood between them and finding me—and they were ready.
The breeze was soft, the sunlight warm, the scent of flowers drifting through the air. For a moment, it felt like a dream.
"I think I hear something," Cris whispered, freezing mid-step. "Footsteps."
Liam immediately drew his gun and pointed it at a tall grass wall ahead. The sound was quick—footfalls. Getting closer. Then silence.
The grass shuddered.
"Show yourself!" Liam shouted, his aim steady.
As the others braced for whatever might come through, Shawn's eyes wandered to Liam's weapon. At first glance, it looked ordinary. But its barrel was curved, with a laser glowing hot yellow at the top, dimmed slightly but still dangerous. The center was clearly built for rapid fire, while the lower section held another hidden light.
Vine-like patterns ran along both sides. When Liam pulled back the hammer, those vines lit up—glowing as if molten lava pulsed through them.
"I want to get my hands on that thing after this," Shawn muttered, unable to hide his fascination. But one look at Liam's face told him—he'd never even touch it.
Then the grass burst open.
A woman in white tumbled through, hair white, breath ragged.
"Zinnia?" Cris ran toward her without hesitation.
The girl looked up. She had my face. My eyes. But she wasn't me.
Still, they believed.
Liam lowered his gun and helped her up. "They're looking for me," she gasped, panic in her voice. "They'll kill me!"
She looked so worn down, so broken, that even I might have believed she was me.
Without warning, she turned and bolted—back the way they'd come.
"Run!" She screamed.
And then they heard it.
Heavy footsteps pounding toward them.
They had no choice.
They ran after her.
But believe me—no one, not even me, could run like that after a single night spent in water. Not on shaking legs. Not at that speed.
They chased the girl, but something gnawed at Shawn. He stopped abruptly, grabbing Cris's hand.
"Something's off," he muttered. "We've passed this way three times already. Look—" He pointed at a flower to their left. "That one."
Instead of arguing, Cris tore her sleeve and tied it around a vine beneath the flower.
They picked up their pace, racing after Liam and the girl. After a few minutes, Cris caught up to Liam and motioned for Liam to slow down. She pointed ahead—just shy of them, the same flower, the same torn sleeve.
Liam caught on instantly. They exchanged glances and stopped.
The girl kept moving. Her bare feet should've made no sound, but her steps were heavy—unnaturally so.
She sensed their suspicion and turned. Liam raised his gun. The laser grazed her skin, searing it—and she recoiled, her disguise peeling away.
She was stunning. Golden curls framed a face too flawless to be real. Her emerald eyes glowed, and a wicked smile curled on her lips.
"Who are you?" Cris asked, instinctively stepping back as Shawn pulled her behind him.
The girl laughed, a sound too gleeful to trust, then collapsed backward as if into a bed—and melted into the ground.
"Is she gone?" Cris spun around, scanning the trees. "I think she's gone."
Shawn scoffed. "That'd be too easy."
A high-pitched cackle echoed around them, bouncing from every direction. In and out. Closer, then gone.
When it finally stopped, Cris and Liam turned—too late.
She was standing behind Shawn.
She began to hum, the melody soft, like a lullaby.
Shawn's voice was barely a whisper. "She's behind me, isn't she?"
Two vines shot up from the ground. Liam fired, hitting one—but the other struck Shawn in the neck. He gasped as his eyes flooded with an eerie lime-green glow.
He staggered, groaning in pain, eyes shutting—then silence.
That same haunting lullaby filled his ears.
Then—Cris's voice, calling his name.
Shawn opened his eyes. He was on a racetrack, bent over, gasping for breath. He looked up—Cris in the stands, shouting. Her lips moved: *I love you.*
He flushed, smiling faintly. The whistle blew.
He ran. His chest ached, lungs burning, but her face stayed with him.
At the finish line, he fell.
A crowd gathered around him, blurring into shadows until everything vanished—sight, sound, all of it.
Then light.
Shawn opened his eyes to an unfamiliar bedroom. White walls. Machines humming softly. A needle in his arm.
A hospital room.
He turned his head and saw Cris, asleep on the bench, her body curled up like she hadn't moved in hours.
"Hey," he called softly.
She stirred instantly, her eyes snapping open at the sound of his voice. In a heartbeat, she was by his side, grabbing his hand.
"Do you need anything? Are you in pain? Hungry? Thirsty?"
"Babe." He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it gently, and smiled. "I'm okay. I don't need anything."
She trembled, trying to speak, but her voice cracked. "I told you not to race today. You know your heart can't take this kind of pressure, and I…"
He looked at her, eyes soft. "You? You what?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I can't lose you. After Zinnia… you're all I have left."
His smile faltered. "Zinnia?" The name struck something, then faded. He searched his mind but found nothing but fog.
"You forgot again?" she whispered, wiping her tears. "Her accident… it's what triggered all this. I know I shouldn't bring it up, but sometimes I just can't hold it in."
"Hey, this isn't your fault." He wanted to sit up and hold her, but the drip held him still. "We'll get through it. Together."
A week passed, and the doctors finally cleared him to leave. His body was healing—but his memory still hadn't.
On the drive home, he leaned back in the seat, holding Cris's hand as they waited at a red light. His gaze wandered—then stopped on a wall plastered with a movie poster: *The Dream of the Knight.*
A flicker. A memory.
He was a boy again, sitting on his father's lap, grinning at a riddle.
"I may be good, I may be bad. I may be the same as the one you had," his father said.
Young Shawn frowned, confused. He turned to his grandmother, sitting nearby. She mouthed a single word: "Dream."
That word echoed now.
His eyes shot open. "It's a dream," he whispered.
Everything he had—the love, the life, the future—it was perfect. Too perfect. A dream you never want to leave. The girl he adored was his. They were planning a wedding. He had the job he'd always dreamed of. Even the car.
But it was Shawn, and the only dream he ran after was being with Cris.
And dreams, no matter how beautiful, eventually end.
And that's exactly what happened.
Shawn woke up gasping, coughing hard, his chest tight and eyes brimming with tears.
Reality had returned—and it hurt.
His eyes fell on Liam's hand—clutching a blood-slicked knife, black liquid dripping from the blade. Before Shawn could react, Liam seized his wrist and yanked him away from the girl.
Shawn barely had time to catch his breath. On the floor, the girl writhed in agony. Blood pooled beneath her, and the vine that had been part of her body lay severed. Liam had cut it off.
She clutched her side, gasping. "Come closer," she whimpered.
Shawn hesitated, then moved, thinking—*what more could she possibly do?*
But the moment he knelt, another vine struck—lancing into his neck. He cried out.
Liam didn't hesitate. Another swing. The blade cut deep, and the vine dropped.
This time, she only laughed. A twisted, gurgling cackle. "I'll live within you," she spat.
Liam drove the knife into her back, just below the shoulder. Her body jolted, then stilled.
She stopped breathing. Her form collapsed—vines uncoiling, twisting, melting into the earth. All that remained was a seedling.
They stood frozen, watching the last trace vanish.
And their hearts sank.
Because I wasn't with them.
I was still suffering in captivity. When I woke, I knew it was a dream. But this time… it was also a memory.
The day I surrendered.
Only now, the memory was wrong.
Too many corpses. Too little light. Every step on the staircase was layered with blood and bodies—two, three piled on each stair. Shadows thickened around me. My hands, my clothes, even my mouth—dripping crimson.
I turned, and there she stood.
A girl in white. Head bowed. White clothes. White hair. Just like me.
I reached out, touched her shoulder. "Who are you?"
She turned.
I stumbled back.
It was me.
But her eyes were black—pure, endless black. Her mouth soaked in blood. Her fingers slick with it. She licked them slowly, like tasting something divine.
"What have you done?" I whispered. The air vanished from my lungs.
Her smile curdled the silence. "What have *I* done? Are you sure it was me?"
I shook my head, unable to speak. Her eyes—empty, consuming—paralyzed me.
I wanted to run. Wanted to wake. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"
"Turn around, Zinnia." She grinned, then grabbed my shoulders and spun me.
Smoke rushed by, laughing, darting through shadows. And then—hands. Cold, invisible hands twisting me around.
I stood before a mirror.
The reflection stared back—black eyes, trembling.
My reflection looked at its hands. At the blood. Frantically tried to scrub it off on her clothes.
But it only spread further.