I opened the door to find a stranger standing there like he'd just popped over to borrow sugar."Yeah, that's me," I said, answering the question he'd apparently asked while I was still zoning out. "Uh… something I can help you with?"
"You should probably leave the apartment," he said, just as casually as someone might suggest grabbing an umbrella before it rains. "There might be something dangerous here."
"…Okay, who are you?" I asked, not moving an inch, even pushing the door slightly more closed. Just enough to show I wasn't interested in whatever kind of sketchy setup this was.
Some rando shows up out of nowhere, says there's something "dangerous" in my apartment, and wants me to go outside? In what world does that not scream scam? Every instinct I'd developed living in this cursed complex was practically singing backup vocals to "Don't trust this guy."
But the man didn't force the issue. Didn't try to shove his way in. He just closed his eyes, like he was concentrating—and then suddenly snapped them open, looking at me like I'd sprouted horns.
"You're an arch," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Freshly ascended, too. Huh…" He tilted his head, muttering to himself, "What did you do in the Netherecho here?"
Well. That changed the vibe real fast.
From the way he was talking, he was clearly an arch himself. And if I had to bet, this was all connected to that incident. Bloodshed. The creepy bone gremlin under my bed. So maybe this guy was here for that?
Still. Coming clean? Not even a passing thought. Not with the orphanage trauma hardwired into my spine. Some adult shows up sounding vaguely official, and I start lying like it's a sport.
"Oh man," I said, shaking my head like I was reliving a war story. "So I dipped into the Netherecho, and this thing was already there. Just losing it. Went full slasher-mode on the vestiges in my room, got a bit roughed up, and when I tapped it—poof. Gone. Scared the hell outta me. Hands are still shaking, look."(My hands were shaking, just not for the reasons I was pretending.)
The man frowned. "Jesus. You shouldn't be doing that at your level. You're lucky to be alive." He paused. "Wait, did that vestige look... bloody?"
"No," I lied smoothly. "More like a shadowy boogeyman. Creepy, but not... wet."
He nodded slowly, like that made sense. "Hmm. Just one more thing—was there anything weird behind your trash can?"
Okay. That was way too specific.
"Yeah," I said, adding a sprinkle of hesitation for flavor. "There were some bloody clothes. I mean, not from murder or anything. I—well, I did kill something, but it was a monster in the passage—"
"Bloody clothes?" he cut in, latching onto it. "Where are they?"
"I… uh… tossed them. In the trash."
"Ah, fuck." He clicked his tongue and spun on his heel. "When?"
"Day ago, maybe? I've kind of lost track of time. Sorry—crazy few days…"
He cursed again and jogged down the stairs. But halfway down, he stopped, looked back up, and asked, like it was the most casual thing in the world:"Hey, just curious—did you kill a monster with a plastic bag?"
That one caught me completely off guard. I blinked, then gave a half-laugh. "Yeah… I guess."
The man grinned wide. "How the fuck did you do that?"
"I, uh… I swung it. It had a can of beans inside and I kind of… beaned it."
He burst into laughter, clapping his hands. "A can of fucking beans!? You bean-flailed it to death!?"
"Bean flail?" I repeated, cracking a smile.
"You know what, kid?" he said, pointing at me like I was a living meme. "Something tells me this won't be our last meeting."
God, I really hoped he was wrong. Still, I smiled politely as he left.
Just before he vanished entirely, my curiosity caught up. "Hey, I've got a question too. Who are you?"
He waved me off with a grin. "Just some random bastard," and disappeared down the stairs.
"…Cool," I said to the empty hallway.
As soon as I locked the door, my legs gave out and I collapsed to the floor, drenched in cold sweat. "Did I have to lie to him…?" I mumbled into my knees. "He seemed pretty nice…"
But yeah. That was exactly why I lied. Nice ones were always the most dangerous. They lured you in first.
"If you come clean, we'll go easy on you."Every kid at the orphanage heard that once. Just once. That's all it took.
Still on the floor, I slipped into the Netherecho. Immediately, the crushing weight in my chest lifted, like someone had turned off the anxiety faucet.
The space buzzed with ether, splotches of glowing paint floating through the air like artistic ghosts. Each element had its own flair—Shadow: dark spheres with tailsLight: tiny stars flickering in patternsWater: little rivers drifting mid-airWood: twisting vines that bloomed and withered in a heartbeatMetal, crystal, glass: glimmering shardsAir: cartoon squiggles like wind drawn by a child
It was the first time I'd actually had a moment to take it all in—and it was... honestly kind of beautiful.
Well. Except for the gross ones.Blood wisps: twitchy red blotchesRot: uh... probably rotting meatDeath: skull clusters. So cheerful.
Still, their ether was just as valid, so I started harvesting. My projection wasn't slow exactly, but moving in the Netherecho felt like jogging through molasses. Not painful, just… dream-like. Like gravity was a vague suggestion.
After some trial and error, I learned to swap the idea of "running" with "get there fast." It helped. Same for falling versus descending. Once I figured out the rhythm, I was zipping around like a spooky little jellyfish.
Collecting wisps got easier too. Instead of cracking them open, I kind of peeled them apart gently, like unwrapping candy.
When I ran out of reachable wisps, I had an idea. I popped back to my body and held my arm up. My projection appeared on my hand. "Success!"
Then my hand relaxed and—plop—I fell off.
For a horrifying second, I thought my arm had vanished. But no. It had just dropped when my body relaxed, and objects only stayed in the Netherecho when still or moving in a loop. So yeah. The hand vanished. Nothing serious. Heart attack narrowly avoided.
I tried again, this time jumping off before the arm disappeared, and managed to grab a few more high-floating wisps that way. After a few more maneuvers, I'd cleared the room.
I checked my progress…
…And yeah, if my soul was a glass of water, this was like condensation on the outside of it. Barely noticeable. But still progress.
With a groan, I dropped back into my body. It was already evening, and I was sore, hungry, and very, very done.
Ate my last sandwich. Got into bed.
It wasn't even 7 p.m.
But I was over it.
No more rushing. No more stress. That was the promise I made to myself. Again.