“The religion is fake,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “It’s propaganda. No one actually believes it.”
Fischer doesn’t answer right away. He studies the board like it’s betrayed him.
“I’m not so sure anymore,” he says. “I think that Aria is trying to turn the front into something real. She wants belief. Devotion.”
He taps the chessboard with one finger, his haunted gaze never leaving my own.
“And she’s using you to make them believe.”
34
RYKER
The fog is so thick it feels alive.
It presses against my skin, damp and cold, swallowing the streetlights whole. I know this town without recognizing it—empty storefronts, cracked sidewalks, the distant outline of buildings that look abandoned but feel watched. Every step echoes too loudly, my boots scraping against pavement that sounds hollow beneath me.
There’s a noise somewhere to my left.
Metal, maybe. Or breathing.
I turn, squinting into the white haze. “Hello?”
My voice dies the second it leaves my mouth. The fog eats it. The silence that follows is worse—expectant, coiled.
Then I hear her.
“Ryker.”
Ellie’s voice. Soft. Too close and too far at the same time.
My chest tightens. “Ellie?” I start walking, faster now, heart pounding. “Ellie, where are you?”
The fog thins just enough for a shape to emerge.
She’s standing in the middle of the street.
Relief hits first—hot and dizzying—until I get close enough to see she isn’t breathing. Isn’t blinking. Her skin is wrong, plastic-smooth, joints too stiff.
A mannequin.
It looks exactly like Ellie, down to the curve of her mouth, the fall of her hair, the jacket I’ve seen her wear a hundred times. Her eyes are glassy, fixed on nothing.
“No,” I whisper, backing away.
The world drops out from under me.
Total black. No fog. No ground. No sound.
Then—click.
A single spotlight snaps on.
The mannequin stands alone in the circle of light, everything else swallowed by darkness. She’s wearing a mask now—white, featureless, stretched tight over her face.
My pulse roars in my ears.
I step forward despite myself. My hands shake as I reach up, fingers hovering at the edge of the mask. I don’t want to see what’s underneath. I can’t decide which version of her would be worse—empty plastic or something that knows me.