I didn't respond right away.
I stood there, motionless, one hand still half-raised toward the console as it dissolved into the floor. The other—still sticky with dried blood—ached with a deep, slow throb. That glyph hadn't given me access.
Not really.
It had acknowledged me.
That was worse.
The system had seen me.
And now something else had too.
I glanced at the mark again—still etched into the far wall. It glowed faintly, as though burned in with a branding iron. No pulsing. No animation. Just presence. The kind that lingered. Like a watchful eye embedded in the geometry. The system had logged a presence that didn't belong.
And now that presence had a symbol.
"We're out of time," I muttered, finally lowering my arm.
I turned back to the floor—to where the glyph had folded in on itself. Most of it had vanished, retracted beneath the surface like some optical illusion. But a scar remained. A faint, circular etching blackened around the borders with half-burned code. Whatever power I'd touched was closed again.
Unless I forced it.
I knelt down slowly, a flash of pain blooming through my side as I shifted. My injured hand throbbed beneath the pressure. The bandage was long since soaked through. I peeled it back with clinical detachment. The skin had split again—overuse, stress, too much contact with sharp things and broken places. The tear wasn't wide.
But it pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
Patch moved closer. Her ears were low. Eyes narrowed.
"I wouldn't," she said flatly.
I looked up. "You have a better idea?"
"I have preservation routines. You don't."
She didn't say it coldly.
She said it with control. Which was worse.
I leaned forward and let a single drop of blood fall onto the glyph.
The moment it hit, the floor responded.
A ripple passed outward. Not visual. Structural. The seams between polygons widened, then sealed. The surface beneath my knees softened—just for a second—then hardened again like breath drawn tight. The air thickened with ozone. Lines of code crawled up the walls like vines, flickering red, then white—
Then gone.
The glyph returned.
But it wasn't static this time.
It opened.
With a hiss.
Not air. Not pressure. The sound of code uncoiling. A tightly wound coil of syntax unravelling under pain. The floor split in a perfect circle around my knees, the metal folding back in a fractal bloom of segmented petals.
In the centre, the glyph reformed.
But not like before.
It rose.
Not far—just a few inches off the ground—but it had depth now. A shallow cylinder of solid code and glowing red glass, its edge pulsing like a heartbeat.
Not mine.
Faster.
Hungrier.
Patch growled.
Not in warning.
In instinct.
"I see it," I muttered.
The glyph pulsed again.
Then opened its centre.
Not a screen.
Not a prompt.
A bowl—shallow and wide, maybe five inches across, etched with teethlike ridges that spiralled inward toward the middle. A receptacle.
It didn't need a label.
I knew what it was.
"It's asking for more," I whispered.
"No," Patch corrected, stepping closer. "It's measuring. The system is weighing you against the logic thread you triggered. It wants equivalence."
"You mean… a password in blood?"
Her eyes narrowed. "In effort."
I looked down at my palm. I was already dizzy. Dehydrated. I hadn't eaten in what felt like days. The debug room had fed me briefly, but it hadn't lasted. My body was running on fumes and fear.
But something in me said this was the only way.
I lifted my hand.
Then clenched it tight.
Pain flared up my arm as the skin tore wider. Blood welled immediately. Thick. Deep. More than before. I guided it into the glyph's mouth, letting it drip across the ridges.
The system drank it.
Each drop deepened the spiral's glow—until the whole construct pulsed red. Alive. Hungry. Awake.
Text bloomed beside it.
[BIOLOGICAL VECTOR: MATCHED]
[THREAD PRESSURE: 42%]
[ECHO ALIGNMENT: BEGINNING]
I leaned back, breath shaky.
Patch stepped in behind me, her furred tail brushing lightly against my back.
"What's happening?" I asked.
Her voice was low.
"It's syncing to your memory."
And then the world… began to render.
The air twisted—not illusion, not heat distortion. The walls bent. Geometry—once sharp, clean—buckled, warped. Ripples ran along the seams like skin stretched over metal. The ceiling cracked—not like plaster, but like an incision. A surgical parting.
And inside?
Tubing. Bone-pale beams. Meat.
It was subtle at first. A trick of the light.
Then a length of bioluminescent cable slithered across the ceiling, pulsing with an organic rhythm.
The glyph at my feet flared white-hot.
No longer glowing red.
Now it was branded into steel.
Cauterised circuitry.
Override complete.
But the cost… hadn't been fully paid.
I swayed. Blinked slowly. The weight of blood loss started to catch up. My vision tunnelled slightly. I reached out—
Patch was there.
She moved beneath my arm, pressing her body against my side.
I collapsed into her, breath ragged, hand still dripping.
Then something else happened.
Where our bodies touched—where blood smeared across her plating—it didn't dry.
It vanished.
Not evaporated.
Integrated.
Patch flinched.
Her whole body spasmed—sharp and violent enough that I nearly lost my grip on her shoulder. Her limbs locked, then reset. Her hind leg thudded into the floor like a piston.
"Patch—?"
She straightened slowly. Her tail curled tightly around her body like a brace.
"I am—experiencing… an unexpected calibration."
Her voice cracked mid-sentence. A stutter—like signal noise across a wire.
Then she continued.
Smoother. Measured.
"I believe I have… absorbed part of the override sequence."
My brow furrowed. "Is that bad?"
"I do not yet know," she said.
And this time?
Perfect diction. No stutter. No clipped vowels. Just cool, articulate clarity. Her pitch had shifted upward. The vowels sharpened. Her whole cadence sounded…
Different.
She looked at me, and I froze.
Her eyes weren't red.
They weren't green.
They were blue.
Calm. Polished. Bright.
"You are bleeding far too much," she added crisply. "And I do not approve."
I blinked. "Since when do you sound like my Year Eight chemistry teacher?"
"I have been exposed to new biological patterns," she replied—not unkindly. "Nullspace reacts. So must I."
The room shook.
Not from instability.
From logic rendering.
Behind us, a wall peeled open—unfolding like a shell. Beyond it: a corridor I knew. Not perfectly. But close. Familiar angles. Familiar colours. Uncanny textures.
Glass. Metal. Lab tile suggestions. Flashing red strobes.
Everything wrong.
Everything… stolen from my memories.
The system had built a room.
A challenge.
A simulation.
Born from my blood.
Patch stepped beside me.
Her voice—clear, steady, still tinged with warning.
"I believe we have entered the puzzle."