Aven stumbled back from the empty pedestal, clutching his bleeding arm. His breath came in ragged gasps, echoing off the cold walls of the sub-basement. Dust swirled in the glow of his penlight, settling on the ashes of the echo-creatures he'd destroyed.
The tablet lay at his feet, screen shattered, faint static flickering across the cracks. Aven picked it up with trembling fingers. The words *MEMORY STREAM INTERRUPTED* blinked once, then faded to black.
He tried to steady himself. His heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to believe it was over—that destroying the Core Exhibit had ended the nightmare. But the new display case glowing in the shadows told him otherwise.
Aven forced himself to stand. He approached the case cautiously. Inside was a charred scrap of paper, pinned under cracked glass. Even through the grime and faint glow, he recognized his own handwriting. It was a page from his journal—a page he had never written.
He squinted at the faded words:
*"The museum feeds on us. On the futures that never were, and the futures we try to create. It will keep trapping them… unless someone tears every story apart."*
His stomach twisted.
Behind him, a soft click echoed in the dark. He spun around, penlight cutting through the gloom.
Rhea stood in the hallway, her silver coat torn, face pale and streaked with grime. She looked exhausted, but her eyes still glowed with that strange, luminous steel.
"Rhea," he breathed. "You're alive."
She nodded slowly. "Barely. I… I think I bought us a little time."
She stepped forward, her eyes flicking to the shattered pedestal and the empty spot where the cube had been. "You destroyed it," she murmured.
"I did," Aven said. "But… there's more. Look."
He gestured to the new case. Rhea frowned, studying the scorched paper. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "It's not over," she whispered. "The museum is adapting."
Aven swallowed. "What is this place really, Rhea? Tell me the truth."
She met his gaze, eyes tired but unflinching. "This museum… it was built to preserve the futures people dreamed of—prototypes, inventions, ideas that might one day become real. But something went wrong. It became a prison for broken timelines. Failed futures. And it started feeding on the people who tried to change them."
She touched the glass of the exhibit gently. "Every exhibit here is a dead dream. And every time someone like you or me touches the edges of fate… this place reaches out to claim it."
Aven shivered. "So… there's no way out?"
Rhea's eyes darkened. "There might be. But it means tearing down the museum completely. Destroying every artifact. Every ghost of tomorrow."
Aven swallowed hard. "All of them?"
Rhea nodded. "It's the only way to end the cycle. Otherwise… it will just keep rebuilding itself. Feeding on us."
A crash echoed down the hall—metal shrieking, glass shattering. A chorus of voices hissed in the dark, like a thousand radio signals overlapping, whispering fragments of futures that had never been.
Rhea grabbed his wrist. "Come on. We need to get back upstairs. If the echoes are rebuilding, they'll start from the top."
They ran together through the sub-basement, dodging piles of old crates and forgotten machinery. Aven's legs burned, blood dripping from his wound, leaving a trail on the cracked tile floor.
As they reached the freight elevator, the walls around them began to flicker—like film burning in a projector. For an instant, Aven saw other versions of himself running beside him, each slightly different: older, younger, dressed in uniforms he'd never worn, carrying tools he didn't recognize.
Rhea noticed too. "They're merging timelines," she said breathlessly. "Trying to collapse everything into one future… one they can control."
The elevator doors screeched open. They dove inside and hammered the button for the main floor. The cab rattled and shook as it climbed, lights flickering wildly.
Aven gripped the railing, sweat dripping down his face. "What happens if they succeed?" he asked.
Rhea looked at him, eyes hollow. "Then no future survives. Not yours. Not mine. Just the museum… and the things it wants to keep."
The elevator jerked to a halt. The doors slid open into chaos.
The main floor was crawling with echo-creatures, their bodies glitching in and out of focus, leaving trails of static as they shuffled past shattered exhibits. The once-grand neon signs flickered and sparked, casting the hall in a sickly, stuttering light.
Rhea squeezed his hand. "Stay close," she whispered. "And don't stop moving."
Together, they stepped out into the ruin, weaving through the creatures as they shrieked and moaned, hunting for something unseen.
In the distance, Aven spotted the giant holographic globe—its cracked shell pulsing with faint light. He felt a pull in his chest, like an invisible thread tying him to it.
"That's where it started," he breathed.
Rhea nodded. "Then that's where we end it."
They ran toward the globe as the creatures turned, their empty eyes locking onto them. A chorus of shrieks rose behind them, and the hunt began.