The voice echoed down the corridor like rot in water.

“...they’re all the same, you know? Narcissists. Just bloated toddlers in lab coats. God complexes and mommy issues. It’s hilarious.”

Laughter. Dry. Derisive. From one of the new hires—a young orderly Elias hadn’t quite memorized yet. He was on the phone. Back turned. Casual.

Too casual.

Elias stood still in the doorway, one hand resting on the cold frame, the other clutching his old pocket watch. No ticking. Just breath.

His eye twitched.

Something inside him blinked open.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t threaten. He just moved.

The basement of Hollowbrook doesn’t smell like mold anymore. It smells like iron.

The walls are dark with old blood and darker things. Beneath flickering bulbs strung like hanging teeth, the worker’s body hangs flayed—opened from collarbone to hip, his skin stretched carefully on rusted meat hooks.

Elias worked slowly. Lovingly. Precision over passion.

“Bloated toddler,” he whispered, drawing the knife through tendon like paper. “I wonder how bloated you feel now.”

He left the man’s lips intact—stitched them into a smile.

“Let the dead mock the living. The living mock no one.”

He catalogued the body in his mind:

> Name: Franklin Ward Position: Orderly, temporary staff Termination: Breach of sanctity. Psychological misconduct. Disposition: Artistic preservation pending decay.

He washed his hands. Again. Again. Again. Until the blood was gone and only the scent remained—like copper trapped beneath his skin.

Then he poured hot chocolate into the brand new mug.

Creamy. Sweet. The smell a lullaby from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

He climbed the stairs. Each one more silent than the last.

He reached her door. Balanced the tray.

Paused.

The smile returned—small, nervous, precious.

“What if she doesn’t like it today? What if it’s too sweet? Too bitter? What if she knows?”

He knocked. Once.

Then opened the door with a grace not found in the living.

She was waiting. She always was.

He placed the mug down in front of her like an offering at an altar.

She lifted it.

She drank.

His hands relaxed.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched her, the room, the curl of steam rising like a spirit.

Inside his head, he murmured:

“She trusts me. That means I still exist.”

He smiled.

“Cycle Six,” he whispered to himself. “The world... begins to correct itself.”