The world lurched.

  Stone folded.

  Fog swallowed everything.

  A metallic pulse rang through their bones.

  And suddenly—

  They were back in the starting room.

  Same grey-blue stone.

  Same torches.

  Same window.

  Bert lay on the floor groaning, clutching his lower back. “I told you lifting triangles is dangerous. Puzzles are a leading cause of spinal tragedy.”

  Harlada didn’t answer.

  She just walked over, raised her staff—

  “WAIT—” Bert squeaked.

  —and smacked him across the spine with a clean, sharp whack.

  Bert yelped—

  then blinked.

  The pain vanished instantly.

  He sat up straight, amazed. “I… I think you have healing talents.”

  Harlada shrugged. “Or blunt-force chiropractic.”

  Bert muttered, “Hidden talents…” and rubbed his back, bewildered and oddly grateful.

  Leo, meanwhile, stood motionless in front of the window.

  His face was blank.

  His eyes fixed outside.

  “Uh… Leo?” Harlada asked. “What are you looking at?”

  Leo didn’t turn. “Not… the zombies.”

  Harlada and Bert exchanged a glance.

  Then they joined him at the glass.

  Where the zombie trio had once pressed their rotting faces against the pane, another group now stood.

  And they were staggering.

  Barely standing upright.

  Swaying as if the ground wouldn’t stop tilting.

  One leaned on the window frame, drooling.

  Another hiccupped.

  The last one was spinning in slow circles for no reason at all.

  They looked exactly like Leo, Harlada, and Bert—

  But these versions were very clearly…

  “…Drunk,” Leo whispered.

  “Extremely drunk,” Harlada corrected.

  “Tragically drunk,” Bert added. “They look like they lost a drinking contest with gravity.”

  Leo pressed his forehead against the glass. “I can’t believe we got replaced by the hungover dimension.”

  Harlada sighed. “At least they’re not biting us.”

  “Give them time,” Bert said. “They might start gnawing on the window out of curiosity.”

  Leo finally tore himself away—

  only to spot something else.

  Another window.

  Where the Albinos had once floated serenely, three tiny figures now stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the ledge.

  Children.

  Three little versions of them.

  Mini-Leo gripping the sill with both hands.

  Mini-Harlada with her hair in a lopsided braid and an expression that promised doom.

  Mini-Bert picking his nose and waving enthusiastically at his adult counterpart.

  Harlada whispered, horrified, “Are those… children?”

  Bert waved back instantly. “HELLO SMALL ME!”

  Mini-Bert waved both arms, fell backward, and vanished from sight with a squeak.

  Leo covered his eyes. “We got replaced by drunkards and children. This Maze is not respecting us.”

  Harlada exhaled. “We barely respect us.”

  The Maze pulsed behind them.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Run #477984 commencing in 5 minutes..

  Opponent roster updated.

  Please lower expectations accordingly.

  Bert nodded solemnly. “Yeah, that tracks.”

  ***

  They stood in silence as the iron doors rumbled.

  Again.

  Harlada rolled her shoulders. “All right. We know what to expect this time. Slow. Careful. No mistakes.”

  Leo nodded. “And definitely no touching things before we check them—”

  The doors finished opening with an echoing groan.

  They stepped forward cautiously, all three lined up shoulder-to-shoulder like suspicious ducklings.

  Same torches.

  Same corridor.

  Same faint dampness in the air.

  After ten careful steps, Bert perked up.

  “Oh hey! This is where the fireball trap wa—”

  CLICK.

  WHOOOOSH.

  A massive fireball shot down the hallway like a meteor with an anger problem.

  The trio dove sideways in a single chaotic blur.

  The fireball blasted past them, hit the doorway behind, and set the entrance corridor on fire.

  Again.

  Leo lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “Bert… why.”

  “I didn’t TOUCH anything!” Bert protested, brushing ash off his tunic. “I just SAID something! I’m being punished for SPEAKING!”

  Harlada dusted herself off. “You said the exact words you said last time.”

  Leo sat up slowly, eyes narrowing. “Hold on. That wasn’t just déjà vu. That was… exactly the same trap. Same place. Same timing. Same angle.”

  Harlada pointed down the corridor. “The same Maze.”

  Leo blinked.

  A realization hit him like a riddle-shaped brick.

  “The Maze resets the teams… but not the layout.”

  He pulled out a small notebook from his pack.

  Harlada and Bert stared.

  “What?” Leo said. “I take notes now. We are becoming professional Maze runners.”

  Bert squinted. “When did you get that notebook?”

  “I always have a notebook.”

  Leo scribbled rapidly:

  Fireball trap #1: Entrance corridor.

  Trigger: walking over the pressure plate

  Avoid: simple ducking away.

  Harlada frowned thoughtfully. “If everything is the same, then the drunk versions of us should appear again too.”

  Bert groaned. “I wonder if they are faster or slower as zombie us.”

  Leo nodded. “Exactly. Knowing the layout means we can predict enemy positions, trap placements, puzzle rooms—”

  “And oppponents,” Harlada added.

  Leo scribbled that too:

  Expect party every reset.

  The Maze pulsed softly behind them.

  Acknowledged.

  Strategic awareness increasing.

  Please don’t get your hopes up.

  Harlada scanned the next stretch of corridor. “All right. We continue carefully. Same Maze means same dangers. Same opportunities too.”

  Bert clutched his back protectively. “And same injuries.”

  “Only if you’re Bert,” Harlada said.

  They set off again, slightly singed, slightly wiser, and extremely aware that the Maze was now a giant murderous loop designed to teach lessons they absolutely did not want to learn.

  ***

  They crept deeper into the corridor, moving with exaggerated caution.

  Leo whispered, “If the Maze is identical, then by my calculations—”

  The sound came first:

  a wet shuffle,

  a heavy stagger,

  a hiccup so violent it echoed.

  Bert froze. “They’re here.”

  Three silhouettes stumbled into view, listing like ships in a storm: the hungover versions of themselves.

  Drunk Leo clung to the wall.

  Drunk Harlada blinked at the torchlight as if it personally offended her.

  Drunk Bert tripped over absolutely nothing and apologised to the air.

  Harlada raised her staff. “Ready.”

  But the drunken trio didn’t attack.

  They barely acknowledged them at all.

  Hungover Leo waved weakly. Then missed and waved at the opposite wall.

  Hungover Harlada leaned over and made a noise like a dying accordion.

  Hungover Bert looked at sober Bert and shook his head disapprovingly before nearly falling over.

  “They don’t want to fight,” Leo said quietly.

  Drunk Bert hiccupped in agreement.

  “They’re not the drunk group,” Harlada said slowly. “They’re the hungover group.”

  Bert’s expression softened. “Oh no… that’s worse.”

  He stepped forward, crouching to their level like someone consoling wounded puppies. “Hey. You shouldn’t be walking around like this. It’s dangerous. Very dangerous.”

  The hungover versions stared at him blankly.

  Bert pointed gently down the corridor. “There’s a fire trap over there. Nice warm flames. You can… uh… rest.”

  Hungover Leo perked up.

  Hungover Harlada squinted like she was trying to read his soul.

  Hungover Bert saluted.

  The three of them shuffled off obediently toward the fire trap.

  Harlada watched them go with a helpless mix of pity and discomfort. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

  Leo sighed. “It’s us or them.”

  “It still feels wrong,” she muttered. “Killing the hostile ones is one thing. They’re trying to murder us. But the harmless ones? The confused ones? The friendly ones?”

  Bert nodded solemnly. “Yeah. It’s strange. Very strange.”

  A moment later, from down the corridor, a familiar click echoed.

  Then a massive WHOOOOSH.

  A long pause.

  Bert winced. “They’re… warm now.”

  Harlada closed her eyes for a second. “I don’t like this part of the Maze.”

  “i don’t like any part of the maze” Leo and Bert said simultaneously.