Ian curled his legs up on the soft cushion of their patterned sofa. Sunflower pillows bracketed him, a gift from Eloise from the illusion. He stared dully at his tightly bandaged hands, seeping vermillion. A lodge wedged in his throat, and a terrible constriction squeezed his chest.

  Reality, and delusion.

  Were his thoughts another conjured fiction, this mundane life that more closely resembled a harrowing nightmare, or the truth?

  Victor squeezed beside him. Ian shuffled away, but like adhesive tape, the Esper shifted closer again until Ian was forced to resign, tucked into the corner of a rather large seat.

  He glowered. "Are the others also caught in this particular fantasy?”

  The veil of fog slowly dissipated, returning memories of the Rift and their mission. The bleak truth.

  Victor gazed at the black screen of the TV, adorned high on the wall. It reflected two sitting figures, pressed together in silence. Occasionally, in the intermission of a blink, a hollowed face flickered between their necks, the presence of a peeking third party.

  The curtains had been drawn across the windowpane, ushering them into dimness. Victor briefly recalled the other Espers and Guides he’d encountered, all waddling in variations of a twisted illusion. “They are all here, but not all lives intersect.”

  Translation: Victor hadn’t cared enough to investigate.

  Ian’s breaths came shallowly. “Is this illusion our deepest fantasy?”

  The Esper sank into the cushion, rolling his head. “Shouldn’t you know?”

  Finally, inevitably, Ian turned. Black eyes met ice-like blue. Victor was embellished with that apathetic smile, like a drawn curve against porcelain. The fantasy of a comfortable life, where happiness and love took Victor’s shape.

  That was the key. The crucial abnormality that told Ian that this wasn’t his ideal. His happiness.

  Rather, it was the life he feared most.

  A normal, boring life didn’t bring him comfort, although perhaps it soothed a foolish facet of him, the simple-minded boy who once longed for the stars. Here, he cohabited with the Esper, who was carved of perfection, down to every minuscule action.

  The man’s sincerity tethered the lines of manipulation, and every movement had been conducted with meticulous attention.

  Here, his sisters’ injustice was forgotten, and only her happiness remained.

  It could indeed be called a happiness—a happiness that horrified him.

  Ian’s fingers folded together in deliberation. What of the Esper, accompanying the illusion with him, who seemed without any fears? Why was he here?

  The pads of Victor’s fingertips grazed Ian’s forehead, brushing away loose strands of hair.

  “What are you thinking, Guide?”

  Ian’s eyes fell to the other’s hands, practicing a familiar movement. He swallowed, levelling his gaze, summoning a steady countenance. “What do you fear?”

  Victor cocked his head, as if thoughtfully contemplating. But he wasn’t, not really, only facading an air of consideration as he’d learned to do. Yet his answer was honest. “Nothing.”

  For some, a lack of fear sounded like a prideful pretense, a guise to protect their fragile face. Yet painted on Victor’s apathetic tongue, it was devoid of anxiety in his disconcerting gaze. The Esper had lived long and seen much, but not one thing coaxed fear.

  Perhaps it was for that very reason he existed here aware.

  Ian breathed deeply, separated by mere inches. The sound of rustling fabrics was vivid in his ears, arms positioned beside each other. The warmth of countless nights. Finally, he sighed. “You’re irritating as hell, but at least you’re self-aware.”

  “I do not consider myself irritating,” said Victor.

  “I take back what I said. You should.” Ian deserted the couch, rubbing his shoulders. “I’m going to look for William.”

  The Esper lazily sprawled, forming an elegant picture if elegance came in serrated edges. “Why?”

  “To dance,” spat Ian sardonically, shooting him a glare. “To save him. What else?”

  “Is it not in your best interest to prioritize escape? Now that our little ghost is aware of your waking, this life will not remain as peaceful.”

  Ian slipped a tattered windbreaker and realized it resembled his original one. He pursed his lips, yanking the door. The hinges squeaked before he glanced back. “He followed me here, so I need to take care of him. Syl would cry a river of tears otherwise. And I hate tears.”

  Victor hummed thoughtfully, though Ian doubted many thoughts occurred in that warped, hollowed head. The man slid on a beige trench coat, placing a hand naturally on the small of Ian’s back. He smoothly directed them out and locked the apartment with a click.

  The series of movements occurred so habitually that Ian only registered it once they stood in the hallway. He thought of saying something, and scowled instead.

  They maneuvered to the elevator, and the digital signage blinked red. Mechanisms whirled, creaking as they began their slow descent toward them.

  “You are rather illogical, Guide,” mused Victor.

  Ian’s eye twitched, jamming the down button again. The Esper could do a decent job at mimicry and prediction, but he couldn’t make sense of things of a subjective nature. Therefore, he could not understand why Ian, who prioritized his desires to the point of callousness, would make such a ridiculous struggle.

  The shaft dinged, metal doors screeching open. Ian grimaced and yanked Victor inside, disturbed by the automatic action. He quickly released their hands, claiming a corner.

  “Believe it or not, humans don’t only behave according to logic.” A stare bored into his temples, and he glared sideways. “Want to lose your eyes?”

  “I would not mind, if you intend to keep them after.”

  Ian recoiled, choking on any retort as disgust darted onto his face. Victor wore his disquieting smile, interlacing their fingers again without any intention to let go. It was the grip of an infant clinging to its mother’s bosom—though Ian had no intention of motherhood, now or ever.

  His eye twitched, and Victor gave a shameless squeeze. The Esper tilted his head, that beautiful face infuriating. Provoking. “Or would you prefer donating your eyes to me, instead?”

  “Get your thoughts straight, bastard,” seethed Ian.

  Victor let out a huff of amusement, though Ian couldn’t tell its sincerity. From the pause in Victor’s expression, perhaps the Esper wasn’t sure either. It almost seemed innocent, youthful, when the other’s sculpted face faltered in surprise.

  It was decided. Ian had already lost his mind, and there was no salvation.

  He muttered a curse beneath his breath and dragged them to the basement. He shoved the large baggage into the driver’s seat of a silver car, one matching four rows of identical, organized cars, and took the passenger’s seat.

  He tilted his head arrogantly, sinking into the leather. “Drive.”

  “As you command,” said the Esper, stretching over to fasten Ian’s seatbelt. He paused, purposely, no doubt, a hover from Ian’s lips. Then, he withdrew, slender hands curved on the wheel. “Where to? I should remind you, I am unaware of the whereabouts of the others.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Ian’s fingers rapped against his arm impatiently, anxiety twining in his chest. His legs tapped a rhythm to match when a hand pressed them down firmly.

  He stiffened. Glanced down. Then he chucked away the wayward paw with a glower.

  “Take us to where you saw him last,” he grumbled. “This illusion should have a boundary.”

  Thankfully, the Esper decided to obey, stepping on the accelerator. The car rumbled, smoother than the modified vehicles Ian had grown used to, made clunky and slow. It wasn’t long before they arrived at an inconspicuous alley, beneath the evening clouds.

  From the end, intertwined neon lights burst alongside laughter and ringing music.

  “As promised,” said Victor, gesturing to a particularly isolated, dreary corner. Right by the massive dumpster, where light didn’t reach.

  Ian fell into a stupor, staring at that corner, then back to the Esper. It had to be a joke, and a rather awful one at that. Before he could indulge in such a thought, the pile of rubbish crinkled, and from it emerged a tall man.

  His tired eyes snapped over, fingers curled around a rock-solid baguette, spotted in mold. When he stepped out, the alley’s lights cast against his back.

  His miserly, paranoid appearance was the least of Ian’s concerns.

  Nestled comfortably in his hideous, uneven bed of hair was a fluffy, eight-legged beast. It blinked its round, beady eyes right at Ian.

  “.....” If Ian followed his theory that this illusion took their greatest fears and twisted them into some idealized fantasy, then William’s was a tarantula? “William. Do you recognize me?”

  The other, garbed in crude, hole-riddled clothing, tilted his head. His down-turned eyes took a pitiful gleam, pursing his lips. The spider scuttled down his neck, popping its googly eyes from his stretched collar.

  “That’s me,” agreed William,” but I don’t know you.”

  Ian was more concerned about locating his guns to eradicate that beady-eyed monster.

  He drew a breath, rubbing his temples. The illusion’s rules remained vague, and he’d lucked out by registering the sheer abnormality of Victor’s presence, but it wouldn’t come easily for all. Even that had taken a hundred and sixty-two days.

  Could he shock William into snapping to his senses?

  Ian quickly scanned the area and, unfortunately, failed to find a proper weapon to bash the other’s head with. The collection of emptied bottles by the corner seemed promising, but homicide seemed to be a possible accident.

  Then, his eyes settled on a puddle of water, leftover from last night’s storm. A white face glimmered on the surface, staring unblinkingly. A meow interrupted them, and a small cat leaped into the puddle.

  A ripple, and she was gone. But how much longer would she wait idly?

  “Just jump off a building with me,” muttered Ian mindlessly. Psychological games were a disease. He preferred the simplicity of a good, cold weapon that felt like the cusp of an old friend, and a few injuries as a consequence.

  William jerked, nearly slipping on a puddle. He swallowed audibly. “Sorry?”

  Ian blinked and registered him. He waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing. I was thinking out loud.”

  “But… was that thought directed toward me?”

  Ian cocked his head, contemplative. “If it were, would you agree?”

  “No!” yelped William, and the tarantula tumbled into his palms. It hopped in disapproval as William shivered. “No, I really don’t like heights, and I like jumping off them even less!”

  “Then,” said Ian curtly. “It wasn’t directed for you.”

  He couldn’t jump together, nor shoot him. All these irksome restrictions forced Ian to do the thing he loathed the most: think. His brain expended enough energy to short-circuit, steaming out of his ears and into oblivion.

  Finally, his memory yanked him to an advertisement within his apartment block. There was a house wedged in the back corner, overgrown in coiling weeds, that the local children frequented. Inside, an old lady liked to throw candy at them.

  Never mind that. If he recalled correctly, the broken sign outside read ‘Night Time Barber.’

  Ian’s attention returned to William’s withered hair, lacking in nutrients. “Do you want a haircut?”

  William blinked. He paled and took two steps back, which Ian matched with three steps forward. When the other retreated again, gulping at Ian’s narrowing eyes, he rapidly shuffled backwards, as if he were attempting to sweep the streets.

  The young Esper’s back tapped against the dampened wall, and panic bloomed across his face. Before he could retreat, a powerful leg slammed beside his waist with a ferocious intensity.

  Ian pinned William by the dumpster. “You’re coming with me.”

  The other dissolved into hiccups, sobbing. “Don’t kill me!”

  “What the hell?” Ian grimaced, cursing out. “Who’d come all this way to commit murder?”

  From behind, Victor casually claimed a clean spot, spectating the show. Ah, right now, Ian’s countenance vividly resembled the scummy male leads of certain obscene novels that a little girl he knew liked to erode her brain with.

  When William shrank back, Ian’s frown only deepened. The Esper wasn’t so cowardly in reality—

  —Then, he remembered Sylvan. The pink-haired Guide didn’t exist here, and without a thing to protect, William had no eagerness to build his sly visage.

  That confirmed one thing. This was no ideal illusion. Ian third-wheeled the pair for weeks, the two who revolved each other as inevitably as the stars and the moon. Reality could crumble, but a blinding beam of hope would remain present, so long as they existed together.

  Ridiculous, in other words.

  Simply human.

  Because that had been Ian once, dreaming of the luminescent stars with his sister.

  He licked his lips, and after some dozen threats and coercions, Ian dragged the scruffy young man toward an even scruffier house, down a sketchy street tangled by foliage. A swish, and an old, wrinkled face pressed against the windowpane.

  Ian stood at the bottom of the wooden steps and whipped an expensive wallet from Victor’s pockets, revealing rows of glorious paper.

  On cue, she happily swung the door open.

  "Welcome, welcome! We welcome all wallets—guests!" she cackled, rubbing her hands eagerly, reminiscent of another old woman from the Underwear Factory. "Now, sweets, which handsome lad is eager to get a trim?"

  She swiveled with a hunched back and jabbed a nail toward William. “You are by far the rattiest!”

  William choked, tucking his tarantula into the safety of his front jacket pocket. “It’s not that bad,” he insisted hesitantly. “I cut it a month ago.”

  “Bah!” She retrieved a gleaming pair of scissors from her apron, waving it. “By a kid, ain’t that so?”

  William flushed. “By me.”

  One incredibly judgmental look from the old hag, and they were swiftly relocated inside. Ian swung into a spinning chair, facing a dusted mirror. Dust clotted the air, humidity suffocating in the cluttered space. Where there weren’t thick stacks of books, it was misplaced papers and potted plants.

  Wilting leaves scraped Ian’s cracked mirror, fracturing in the center. He scrutinized it for a second before lazily rolling his head sideways. A faint, mocking laugh left him. “Not bad,” he gestured to his hair, “why don’t you give me a haircut, too?”

  Red chased up William’s face, soaking his ears. It was a little too amusing, teasing this typically gentle, straight-laced character. What a determined act the Esper clung to.

  Ian supposed that, over time, he would see many more faces of both of them.

  “I wouldn’t dare—”

  “Dare,” smiled Ian languidly, leaning in. “I agree. I don’t think it’s too bad.”

  “Stop!” screeched the woman, dangerously swiping her scissors between them. Ian blinked and swore he caught a few sacrificed eyelashes fluttering down. “No leaving without paying!”

  A metal rolling cart rattled over, and she broke into a conversation about ideas with the flustered Esper. Ian interrupted it with a simple crook of his finger. He pushed away other thoughts, such as the novelty of seeing William in such a silly state, without the constrictions of the apocalypse.

  An Ian without his experiences, accompanying his sister and that Esper in a simple life—how had that appeared?

  His smile dropped. “Pink. Dye it pink, all of it.”

  William recoiled, aghast. “I—I don’t want pink hair, though?”

  “It’s not about what you want,” proclaimed Ian arrogantly, the stern intonation preventing a retort. “I’m paying, and your hair is going to be pink. Cotton-candy pink.”

  According to Sylvan, anyway, when he attempted to convince Ian to match hair colours.

  The money-eager woman dismissed her client’s refusal and gathered the ingredients. William gazed imploringly at Ian, who swiftly dismissed him. In the corner of his eye, a shadow darted across the cracked mirror, wiry hair creeping from the fracture.

  He snapped his head sideways, and an object zipped past him. Victor’s arm, hovering behind, shot up and caught a pair of pointed scissors. Right in front of William’s temple.

  Victor smiled, snipping twice into emptiness. “What a dangerous little tool.”

  The old woman hurriedly snatched it back. “Ah, what bad luck! How did that slip from my hands?”

  She pursed her lips, chiding the blades before dragging over another trolley. There were five wooden bowls of various colours. With a hum, she happily grinned at the pale-faced William, who gulped at the gleaming scissors, emitting a menacing radiance.

  Goosebumps crawled up Ian’s neck, and his sharp eyes darted left and right. In the process, they locked with a pair of icy-blue. Victor calmly crooked a finger, pointing at the bowls.

  That was when Ian saw it. A severed, pale, sunken hand squeezing out of a water glass’ reflection, in the center of the five. The woman’s brush dipped down, and bony fingers switched the order of the bowls with swift, silent movements.

  The skin compressed like scrunched fabrics and retreated. The brush dipped into a rich blue. Ian leaped up, grabbing the woman’s wrist, and with a sharp hiss, the brush clattered down.

  She snapped her head around, only to meet a pair of rich black eyes, like consuming ink.

  Ian tapped the wobbling bowl and released her. “Wrong colour.”

  She scrunched her nose in complaint before glancing over. Shock erupted over her face. “Is this some joke? I am old, not senile! I know where I arranged my bowls!”

  At the lack of a response, she huffed and returned to her task. Ian flopped into his seat, spinning to meet the mirror’s reflection. There, he claimed the centerpiece, surrounded by cracked mugs, grinning nesting dolls, and sealed wooden crates.

  A drooping flower lamp buzzed intermittently with static, and a broken cuckoo clock ticked.

  Loathsome as it was to admit, Victor was right. If the little ghost girl couldn’t tempt them with the illusion, she’d have them dead instead.

  His shoulders loosened, and his eyelashes fluttered. A pair of crooked glasses by the terracotta pots, and glossy frames by the staircase. Shattered mirrors and rippling water glasses.

  All inscribed with a hollowed, smiling face.

  He rested his cheek in his palm, concluding his brief observation. A faint smile flitted over his face, and it could only be called sinister.

  “If you’re going to play the role of a child playing pranks,” he whispered darkly, to the wobbling phantoms, “then why don’t I set you straight?”