Dreyfus lowered his hand, the shimmer of power fading at his fingertips.

“The Dual Vessel, then,” he said quietly. “But only if both consent.”

The idol trembled. Her voice, when it came, was small. “I… I don’t want to disappear.”

“You won’t,” Dreyfus assured. “You’ll share. You’ll still be you.”

Jira loomed over them both, threads coiling tighter. “This is the only payment I will accept. No less. No other.”

The idol’s eyes darted between Dreyfus and Jira’s vast, expectant gaze. The forest pressed in, silent and watching.

“…Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

Jira smiled — vast and unblinking — and lowered her head. Her threads reached forward like roots in water, weaving into the idol’s skin. The ritual began.

The stadium dimmed. Light pooled around them, threaded with singing not heard but felt — like veins humming with stars. The idol convulsed once, then stilled.

Strange glyphs and coiling designs bloomed across her skin — ink that shimmered and moved like living silver. Glyphs that hummed with memory and depth.

Then she shifted.

Her body twisted — not broken, but rewritten. Limbs elongated, skin flushed with bioluminescent markings. Her hair fused into tendrils that flowed like liquid silk. Her eyes split — not just in number but in dimension — revealing layered pupils, spirals that saw through time.

Wings unfurled. Not feathered, not scaled — organic architecture, like something grown from a cathedral of bone and breath. A mouth opened where none should be, and when she sang, the sound was wrong — beautiful, holy, and unsettling all at once.

A living Giger painting of stardust and muscle — terrible and transcendent.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the form folded in on itself. The idol stood once more — shaken, tattooed, but whole.

She exhaled. So did Jira — now silent within, content.

“…She’s with me,” the idol said, her voice layered with an echo not her own. “And I can feel her joy.”

Jira did not speak again. She didn’t need to.

Dreyfus finally let out a long breath and nodded. “Deal honored. Portal closed.”

The Hollow exhaled around them — rustling leaves like soft applause. Peace returned, for now.

And somewhere, far beneath the idol’s skin, something sang.

Then the air ripped — fire and ash in its wake.

A demon woman stepped through: black horns, flame-stitched wings, and a smile too sharp to trust.

“Hell-o,” she purred. “Nice plane. Ours got wiped. Mind if me and a few friends move in?”

A demon scout. Of course. She must have sensed all those portals.

Six options formed:

> Pact-Bound – Let them stay under contract. They serve your law. Dangerous but useful.
> Gate Slam – Deny her outright. No demons. No deal.
> Lockbox – Trap her now. Seal her forever in a prison of void.
> Mirror Bargain – They stay as illusions. Reflections only. No freedom, no danger.
> Write in