Saraline opened the door, her eyes jittered as she observed her surroundings. From the view, an array of insanity.

  The sky convulsed between shades—rose-pink, gold, and burgundy—flashing in pulses like a dying heartbeat. Every few seconds, it reset, colour bleeding into itself, until it looked less like air and more like liquid glass being stirred by a trembling hand. The skyline shimmered and warped as if the world couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

  Tall buildings in the foreground flickered between shapes: a restaurant melted into a chapel; a cafe became a cathedral, then a bar; light posts bent into halos. Holographic menus appeared mid-air, only to dissolve when looked at too long.

  No cars. No wind. Only movement without motion.

  Figures glided through the streets—too fluid, too identical. They flickered with each step, like rendered frames missing between moments. Each one smiled with mechanical precision. When Saraline looked directly at them, they vanished, replaced by static silhouettes that shimmered faintly before evaporating.

  The ground beneath her was glass—a crystallised lattice that reflected everything except her own body. The reflection showed people who weren’t there, buildings that shouldn’t exist, skies that didn’t belong.

  A breeze of artificial perfume swept past, and the scent of nectar—sweet, perfect—burned her nose like acid.

  “Jeremiah was born in a hell like this?” Dara whimpered, clutching onto Psylaiso’s arm as she stared alongside— behind the Failure; “It makes no sense, aren’t Medeans known purely for brute capabilities?”

  “It’s Medea’s world,” Psylaiso muttered, her reflection smiling back at her even though her lips were still. “Perfection is a disease here.” She spat on the mirrored ground; her saliva rippled like mercury before being absorbed, vanishing with a soft chime.

  She gently walked next to Saraline; pointing— her jewellery index gloated against the reflector as the tip faced into the horizon.

  On the horizon, a castle stood—if it could be called that. It rotated slowly, an impossible geometry of cubes and spirals, colourless but glowing, its walls constantly rearranging into new shapes as though the architecture were alive and indecisive. Each tower changed dimension mid-turn, sometimes flat, sometimes infinite.

  “It looks a decently far away.” Saraline rolled her head around, a bright grin creeping on her face as she turned to look at Psylaiso beside her, “Wanna mess with the Lord of Phantasms?”

  “We are on business— that’s our excuse.” Psylaiso returned the smile, her solitaire smile beeped.

  “Pick one! Slime or Crystal!” Dara slapped the lady on her back, she didn’t budge.

  “I’m hardened right now.” Psylaiso chuckled, budging Saraline in the shoulder as she rolled her eyes.

  “Kill yourself.”

  The illusion evolved.

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  Ostra no longer flickered—it stabilized, revealing a city that shouldn’t exist: neon skylines shaped like inverted cathedrals, glass rivers reflecting holographic constellations, and towers built from memory and code. The people were beautiful—too beautiful—every smile mathematically precise, every conversation looping the same five sentences in different voices.

  Neon motorcycles roared without sound, sliding through one another like ghosts. Lovers argued, made up, and repeated it seconds later. The sky rained pixels that sizzled upon touch.

  Saraline, Psylaiso, and Dara walked among them—wearing the same outfit, breathing in the static that passed for oxygen. Their mission had become a fever dream: find Ostra’s “heart” and convince it to turn against Samiel.

  “That bastard’s prison is only a few runs away.” Psylaiso yelped, carrying Dara on her back who was kicking the slime, “Stop it!”

  “Let’s run then.” Saraline chipped, grabbing her cape and swaying it side to side— before running.

  But the horizon didn’t move.

  The castle stayed the same distance away, its glow taunting them. No matter how far they ran, the road stretched to match. Time folded; effort became illusion.

  Minutes became hours.

  Hours became static.

  Eventually, they collapsed into an alleyway. The walls pulsed faintly with digital veins—pink and green lights running like bloodstreams beneath glass.

  “How do we even?” Saraline’s smile faded as a frown emerged.

  “I don’t even…. know.” Psylaiso lied on the floor, defeated as Dara’s eyes were spinning— tweety birds flying around her head.

  “Follow the soul.”

  “Huh?”

  “Follow the soul of the one you want then it’ll come as if it was a future tomorrow.”

  A voice crept from behind Psylaiso.

  The two sprung up— battle stance as in the shadows stood a small figure.

  Out from the shadows stepped an older gentleman: their hair grey and thin, short and bleak as their knees tumbled quite a deal— whiskers blew in the dark as his eyes were sealed away by a white blindfold. He was wearing a bright purple trench coat, baggy, flexible clothing which had cargo pockets and straps, his gloves— carbon fibre as a tiny baseball cap fit on his head, ‘Draiga’.

  “Sup mane.”

  The three stood still, stunned.

  “You are the first person to actually talk to us.” Saraline tilted her head, “Who are you?”

  “I’m the first real person you’ve spoken to— you know that’s the thing with Ostra.”

  “Real?” Dara fixed her glasses, “Is this a fake world?”

  “Ostra is always changing— according to the Lord himself, however as a result— placeholders need to be visible for tourists. So the real Medeans live in the compound, near the Lord’s home.”“So why are you out home late.” Psylaiso cheered.

  “I get privileges— lots of em.” The man tightened his blindfold; he leaned on the side of the building, partially phasing through showcasing the neometallic constructs within, “Gilgamesh is my name and yours?”

  The three stood quietly before Saraline cleansed her throat.

  “Failure, Jaegar and Glop.” She pointed at herself, Dara and Psylaiso, “That’s our name— now be a good guide and take us to the ‘Lord’”.

  “Sure.” Gilgamesh threw his hands up and walked past all of them, “Don’t bother lying to me, Saraline Grover— it gets me upset.” Gilgamesh chuckled, turning his head to the rebel who simply stared— coldly.

  His hands shot in the air as he felt something bludge against his back. Cold, long, blunt.

  “You move, you die. You exhale once and you die, make a sound and you die— breathe wrongly, as if a sign for help— you get your arms cut off. Fidget with your nostrils and their sliced— if you understand, wiggle your fingers.”

  “Who’s saying this?” Gilgamesh’s voice was grand and imposing— but nobody buckled.

  “Wiggle your fingers or you simply die— we have all the time of the world to follow Medea’s soul.” The voice put heavy emphasis on the God, venom spitting.

  Gilgamesh wiggled his fingers.

  “Now walk.” The individual backed the object into his back— forcing him to walk, to Medea’s.

  “You don’t even know my power— if I even have one.” Gilgamesh’s voice quivered, sweat dripping from his cheeks as they were round and pudgy.

  “I’ll kill you— you aren’t strong.” They stepped into the public street. Nobody reacted. The people around them kept smiling, kept walking, kept looping.

  “Now,” the voice whispered, “walk.”