The man’s eyes remained flat, cold, detached.

Then his body began to shift again. Flesh rippled. Hair lengthened. Curves bloomed where muscle had been.

A moment later, a breathtakingly beautiful woman stood in Mackenzie’s place—her presence tinged with something ghostly and wrong, like perfume mixed with blood.

A few minutes later—

Knock, knock, knock.

There was a light rap on the door before it swung open.

“Mackenzie, the captain’s calling for us. We need to move,” Carlos said, standing in the doorway. His eyes flicked briefly over Mackenzie’s half-buttoned shirt, lingering a moment too long.

She covered her mouth with one hand and let out a soft, almost playful chuckle. “Got it. I’ll be right there.”

Shouldering her bag, she smiled faintly and stepped out, joining Carlos in the hallway.

Behind them, the toilet in the room gurgled once, then fell silent—its surface perfectly still, as if nothing had ever happened.

“What took you two so long?” Dale muttered under his breath as they joined the group. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Everyone’s here. Let’s move.”

Havoc Division, Embercrag, and Obsidian—three teams, more than a dozen Awakened—gathered about ten kilometers from Skyfleet Town. The air was thick with tension.

“There are three villages under Skyfleet Town,” Sean briefed, his tone formal. “Activating the Prisoner’s Curtain burns through a massive amount of ore, so we must do it well.”

He gave a quick salute.

“Open the Curtain. We’ll enter first. If possible, minimize civilian casualties,” Vince instructed calmly.

They hadn’t evacuated the villagers to avoid drawing attention. Skyfleet Town still slept unaware that a hunt was beginning. Fortunately, their target was an illusionist; at least the fight wouldn’t level half the region like a brute-force battle would.

“Mr. Dale, your team ready?” Vince asked.

Dale gave a curt nod. “Ready.”

“Then let’s go.”

Finnegan unfurled a pale red umbrella. The air rippled around it, like invisible water waves expanding outward.

“Move in,” Vince ordered.

The ripples spread unseen, intangible—yet those attuned to the Prisoner’s Curtain could feel its signature pulse, the faint marking left on every Awakened within its range. By the time the ripples faded, Skyfleet Town was sealed off, completely wrapped in the Curtain’s unseen dome.

One by one, the Havoc Division members stepped through.

Axel closed his eyes briefly, entering his inner sight before stepping forward. When he opened them again, his gaze drifted upward, scanning the horizon.

Something flickered in the distance.

A faint green light. Three, maybe four kilometers away—small as a pinprick. Too faint to be sure it was real.

“Mr. Vince! Hurry up!” someone called from inside.

Vince turned back to Axel, puzzled. “We need to go. What is it?”

Axel hesitated, eyes narrowing on the horizon. “I’m… not sure. Probably nothing.”

No time to check. He followed the others in.

“Dale, take your team to Pond Village. Finnegan, Red Leaf Village. We’ll head for Rice Village in the center,” Vince ordered once they regrouped inside the Curtain.

“Report any anomalies immediately. If Valerie attacks and someone gets pulled into a dream, she’ll have to project part of her mind outward. Once she does, we’ll find her—and finish it.”

Dale’s group, already itching to go, nodded impatiently and vanished into the darkness.

“Mr. Vince, we’ll check in soon,” Finnegan said before leading Gideon and the others off toward Red Leaf Village.

As their figures disappeared down the dirt road, Kaia stretched, a lollipop stick jutting from her lips. “With Mr. Charles here, it actually feels safe again,” she said cheerfully.

Charles chuckled. “Even with that compliment, I still have to remind you—if you get dragged into the dream, don’t rely on us outside to pull you back.”

He adjusted his glasses, his tone shifting to that of an old instructor giving a lecture.

“An illusionist’s dreamscape usually falls into two types—nightmares and sweet dreams. Nightmares are straightforward: they’re built to kill you. If you die inside it without realizing it’s a dream, your brain accepts it as real—and your body dies, too.”

He paused. “The advantage for us is that nightmares are unstable. The horror makes it easier for the victim to realize something’s off, and once they do, they can break free.”

“Sweet dreams,” he continued, “are far trickier. They’re slow, seductive. The illusionist uses your subconscious—your fears, your desires—and weaves a world so perfect that your mind doesn’t want to leave.”

Kaia listened quietly, but Millers crossed his arms, frowning. “So… even if you know it’s fake, some people still stay?”

Charles nodded. “Exactly. Some illusions are so beautiful, people choose to stay inside them. Even when they know the truth.”

Millers let out a low whistle. “That’s messed up.”

Phoenix shuddered. “Yeah. Seriously messed up.”

Charles gave a faint smile. “That’s why I said—don’t rely on anyone outside. Once you fall into her dream, it’s a war against yourself.”

The moon hung high as they reached the outskirts of Rice Village. A thin fog curled across the fields.

In the courtyard of a farmhouse, a middle-aged woman scattered grain for her chickens. The soft fluttering of wings and pecking of beaks filled the quiet air.

When she was done, she dusted off her hands and sat down in a rattan chair. For a long moment, she simply watched the night sky, the faintest of smiles tugging at her lips. Then she rose, moved inside, and walked into a small, dimly lit room.

An old radio sat on a shelf. Her fingers hovered over the power knob, hesitating.

“…No hurry to leave,” she murmured softly.

Then she turned away, returned to her room, and knelt down on the futon.

The faint sound of static crackled from the radio behind her—then faded to silence.

“So, you still remember what I taught you,” Charles said as they walked down the narrow country road. His voice carried the steady calm of a teacher—measured, patient, warm.

As they walked, the air suddenly turned colder. A northern wind rose, carrying with it soft flakes of snow that brushed across his face—cool, almost tender.

At the end of the path stood a smiling woman, waving at him. “Come home, dinner’s ready.”

Beside her, a little girl of five or six tugged along a big yellow dog. Her front teeth hadn’t fully grown in yet, and her giggle was pure sunshine. “Grandpa!”

Behind the girl stood a young couple, arms linked, both smiling with quiet affection.

Smoke curled from the chimney of the small farmhouse beside the road, carrying with it the warm, familiar scent of food.

Everything felt perfectly natural. The other Obsidian members were gone. The words he’d just spoken seemed like a memory from another lifetime. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been talking about a moment ago.

“You’re home so late again,” the woman said softly, brushing the snow from his shoulders with a hint of reproach.

Charles’ eyes filled with tears. “Alright, Molly… let’s go home.”

Together, they walked toward the lighted farmhouse, their footsteps muffled by the snow.

Inside, the young man talked about his work in the city, while his wife carefully hung up his coat.

Charles’ expression softened as he reached out and took Molly’s hand.

“What’s wrong? Eat your food,” Molly said, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Charles’ throat tightened. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers against her cheek—a face he hadn’t touched in so many years. Even the warmth of her skin felt real.

“I just… want to stay a little longer.” His voice trembled. He picked up his chopsticks, trying to convince himself. Just one bite. Just a little longer.

The ache in his chest grew unbearable. Staring at the family he had loved and lost, he could no longer hold back the tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But they need me now. I can’t stay.”

Bang!

A surge of psychic energy burst outward. In an instant, his wife, his son and daughter-in-law, the cozy farmhouse—all of it shattered like glass.