The soil clung to Elliot’s fingers like rot, cold and grainy, reluctant to release him. He rose slowly from the damp earth, joints stiff, lungs drawing in air that tasted of scorched iron and old blood. Above him, there was no sky—only blackness stretched taut, heavy and low, as if the world had been closed off from light.

A groan echoed somewhere distant, deep and rhythmic, like ancient wood bowing under strain. Fog curled in the hollow places, low and watchful. It didn’t drift—it coiled, gathered, waited.

He coughed, a raw sound, and pushed himself upright. The ground was torn with clawmarks, as though others had tried—and failed—to crawl free. Ahead, ruins shimmered faintly in the mist: fragments of a forgotten place. Rotting fences, bent street signs, crooked paths—ghosts of order surrendered to time.

And cabins, dozens of them. They leaned inward like broken men, ribs bared, windows blind. One cabin stood out, slanted violently, one corner devoured by the sinking earth. Its door hung open, wide but breathless. He didn’t trust that door.

A shape stirred beside it—a figure hunched in the dirt, still as prayer. Elliot stepped forward, and the soft shift of his boot disturbed the silence. The figure twitched. Rose. Turned. Even beneath the grime and the madness, Elliot knew that face. 007n7. Gaunt, filthy, trembling. A man frayed by time and guilt. He didn’t speak. Just stared—not at Elliot, but at the cabin. As if he could still hear something inside.

Fury welled in Elliot’s chest. "You..." The word cracked in his throat. "You ruined me." 007n7 didn’t move. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t have to.

Then, as if summoned by the tension in the air, the mist behind Elliot shifted. Split. They emerged one by one, silent silhouettes in the fog’s embrace.

Two Time drifted forward, their movements fluid but detached, eyes dark hollows that caught no light. Their tail swayed back and forth in a calm manner. Guest 1337 followed, boots silent, face unreadable, like something carved from cracked marble. Shedletsky arrived with rust at his collar and weariness in his spine. His gaze flicked to Elliot, then away—perhaps in shame. Perhaps in fear.

Taph and Dusekkar moved like echoes of one another, pulled forward by threads unseen. Chance came next, head bowed, fingers twitching with unseen rhythm but still flipped their coin. And Noob—fractured mask hanging loose, dragging steps that spoke of nightmares survived but not escaped.

Last of all came Builderman. Not aged. Not broken. But wrong in a way that defied language.

The group gathered slowly, wordless, arranging themselves in a loose half-circle around 007n7, who remained kneeling. As if this scene had happened before. As if this was a ritual.

Elliot’s voice scraped through the stillness: "Why are you all here?" None answered. Elliot turned back to 007n7.

"Why are YOU here."