Alexander didn't answer at once.

  He was looking toward the place where the trays were being carried out, where the pteroseruses vanished, where the walls pulsed hardest.

  "No," he said at last. "It's not Phil."

  I exhaled — and immediately went still.

  "It's the ancient Lactimol," Alexander continued. "The same one. The one you saw in the Nest."

  The words didn't register at first. Then they locked into place.

  "Spikes are forcing their way out of him," he said dully. "It began the moment Phil went into labor."

  He gave a brief nod toward the living walls. "We placed them all here. In the womb."

  In the womb?..

  The idea was so absurd my mind rejected it for a second.

  I looked again at the "needles" being carried away.

  And finally understood.

  They weren't needles.

  They were the long spikes.

  The same ones that had pierced the flesh of that enormous, wretched, blood-soaked creature — larva-like — the one that had terrified me because it held too much life and too much pain.

  The last surviving Lactimol.

  "Why are they coming out?" I asked almost in a whisper. "Is that... good? Or bad?"

  I clung to Alexander's face like it was the only fixed point in the room.

  He shook his head.

  Slowly.

  "I don't know," he said honestly. "Move. We need to go further."

  He gave no time for questions or fear. He simply turned — and we followed.

  We turned right and walked only a short distance. The walls here were different. More alive. Closer. Thin, flexible tendrils protruded from them — dozens, hundreds — gently shifting, as if tasting the air.

  I slowed.

  Alexander stopped.

  Calmly, he took one tendril by its tip. It obediently coiled around his fingers, soft, almost affectionate. He wound it around his wrist like a cord and, without hesitation, pushed his arm straight into the wall.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  When he pulled it back out, I gasped.

  His skin was blue. And shining.

  Luminous, as though something alive flowed beneath it — slow, aware. The glow was soft, internal, like deep water catching light.

  Where his arm had entered, a deep hollow remained. A dent.

  Like the imprint left in something very soft.

  The tendril was gone.

  Completely inside the wall.

  "That's it," he said. "Passage open."

  He spoke quickly, precisely — the way people speak when panic is a luxury.

  "Lia, I'll need to carry you."

  He turned to us.

  "Molly, Jo-Jo. I go first with Lia. The order is this: wheelchair first, then Jo-Jo with Bridget, then you, Molly. One at a time. Don't hesitate."

  Lia went even paler. Her lips trembled.

  "I—" she began, but Alexander had already lifted her.

  Easily. As if she weighed nothing.

  He positioned himself with his back to the hollow. The wall shifted slightly. He bent his knees, jumped — and sat into it like into a soft chair.

  The wall closed.

  With a dull, wet sound.

  They were simply... drawn in.

  "Oh God!" Jo-Jo cried. "Lia!"

  He lurched forward, nearly panicked, as if ready to throw himself after them without plan or command.

  I grabbed his arm.

  "Stop," I said sharply, stronger than I felt. "Remember what he said."

  I looked him straight in the eyes. "Don't panic. He knows what he's doing."

  Jo-Jo was breathing hard — but he nodded.

  Together we lifted the wheelchair. It was heavy, awkward, cold metal biting into our hands. We pressed it against the hollow.

  The wall reacted.

  It wrapped around the chair like lips.

  Slowly.

  Testing.

  A strange sound followed — soft suction, as though something were assessing shape, size, taste.

  My stomach tightened.

  And then — suddenly —

  The chair vanished.

  Simply swallowed inside, just as Alexander and Lia had been.

  I inhaled sharply.

  "Jo-Jo," I said. "You're next."

  He held Bridget tighter. She buried her muzzle into his jacket.

  "Ready?" I asked, though the question meant nothing.

  He looked at the hollow. Then at me.

  "No," he said honestly.

  He lowered his gaze to Bridget and hugged her closer.

  "Don't be scared, girl," he whispered, kissing her head.

  Then he turned his back to the wall.

  Took a step back.

  Jumped — awkwardly, as if hoping at the last second it would all turn into a joke.

  The wall accepted them.

  With a wet, hollow gulp.

  They were pulled in completely.

  The sound faded.

  I was alone.

  In front of me — the pulsing hollow in the living wall.

  I stepped forward.

  I was in a dress.

  Narrow. Entirely unsuited for jumping into living architecture.

  The fabric tightened across my hips, sequins scratching cold against my skin. For a split second a ridiculous thought flashed through my mind: this is how people die — in a beautiful dress and terrible shoes.

  I turned my back to the wall.

  My heart pounded in my ears. The air pulsed. The ringing seemed closer now. More intimate.

  "Alright..." I exhaled. "Let's go."

  I jumped.

  Instantly something soft, warm, and incredibly strong pulled me in.

  I "sat" into the hollow.

  My body slipped inside with a quiet, wet sound. The dress strained — then released. The wall closed around my back, hips, shoulders — not painfully, but firmly, like an embrace you cannot escape.

  The world jolted.

  I was pulled inward — fast, without warning. Sound vanished. Light disappeared. Sensation blurred, as though I'd been passed through warm gel.

  I fell.

  Straight into bluish jelly.

  It wasn't solid — more like thick trembling plates that parted beneath me and slid back together. I sank almost to my waist. Cool. Viscous. Slick.

  "Perfect," I muttered through my teeth.

  My pale blue sequin dress.

  Ruined.

  Sequins now glimmered faintly beneath blue slime. Fabric clung to my legs. My shoes — thank every possible force — were still on.

  I realized I was inside some enormous bowl or container. Round, smooth, semi-transparent walls rising around me like a giant aquarium.

  Above — voices.

  And... laughter.

  I looked up.

  Over the rim stood Alexander, Lia, and Jo-Jo.

  Laughing.

  Their faces were glowing — not only with emotion. They too were covered in blue jelly. Hair, clothes, hands — everything faintly luminous, as if dipped in shining glaze.

  Only blue Bridget wasn't laughing at me.

  She was watching carefully, head tilted slightly. What a clever dog.

  "Very funny!" I shouted. "Wonderful attraction!"

  The laughter softened, but the smiles remained.

  I felt irritation rising in me. Moments ago we'd been in horror. Living walls. Spikes. And now — this?

  "What is this stuff?!" I demanded. "And how do we get out of here?!"

  Alexander, still smiling, raised his hand and pointed.

  A smooth slide led out of the bowl — a slick descent clearly designed to be used.

  I made my way toward it. The jelly squelched underfoot. I gripped the edges, trying not to lose balance.

  Reached it.

  Sat down.

  Slid.

  The descent was quick and smooth. A second later I landed at the bottom on a soft platform coated in the same blue sheen, only thinner.

  The others came down by a gentler slope from the bowl.

  They looked... different. Not like they had near the pulsing walls. No panic. No paralysis. Lia was smiling — tired, but calm. Jo-Jo held her shoulder as if the worst had already passed.

  "What happened?" I asked. "Why are you so calm? What is this place? And why are we covered in slime? What is this?"