The first trap was a classic: a pressure plate that triggered a swinging blade from the ceiling. Evan saw it, stepped on it anyway, and watched as the blade swung down toward his head.
It stopped an inch from his neck. Trembled. Made a sad little clang.
Then it retreated back into the ceiling with what could only be described as embarrassment.
"A for effort," Evan said, patting the ceiling. "But maybe work on your follow-through."
The second trap was a magical glyph that shot jets of flame. Evan walked through it. The flames parted around him like he was Moses at a very disappointing barbecue.
"You're ruining the ambiance," Emma called from behind him. "This place is supposed to be scary."
"I'm terrifyingly unimpressed," Evan replied. "That's my brand."
Lydia was taking notes, muttering about "unprecedented magical suppression fields" and "reality-warping passivity." Ashe drifted silently, observing everything with his dark eyes.
They turned a corner into a wider chamber. The floor was tiled with glowing runes in a complex pattern. At the far end, a treasure chest sat atop a pedestal, gleaming enticingly.
"Obvious trap is obvious," Evan said.
"Maybe it's a decoy trap," Emma suggested. "The real trap is psychological. You overthink it, second-guess yourself, and then—BAM—you fall through a hidden pit."
"Or," Evan said, "the chest is just a chest, and we're all idiots."
He walked across the runes. They flickered uncertainly, as if trying to remember what they were supposed to do. Nothing happened.
Evan reached the chest. Opened it. Inside was a single, folded piece of parchment.
He picked it up, unfolded it, and read aloud:
"'Congratulations! You have bypassed all traps! Your prize: this note. Please leave quietly. Sincerely, The Management.'"
He stared at it. "Are they... mocking me?"
"I think they gave up," Lydia said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Evan crumpled the note and tossed it over his shoulder. "Well, that's just rude. I wanted at least a coupon for a free dungeon tour."
***
The next chamber was filled with armored guards. Not just a few guards—like, a lot of guards. They stood in perfect formation, weapons ready, helmets gleaming, capes arranged for maximum dramatic effect. There had to be at least fifty of them.
They looked terrifying.
They sounded terrifying (their armor clanked in perfect unison when they shifted).
They even smelled terrifying (polished metal and the faint tang of whatever guards ate for breakfast—probably something manly, like raw meat and determination).
Evan stopped at the entrance. "Hi. We're here for the... evil lair tour? Is this the right room? I feel like I should have booked ahead."
The lead guard stepped forward. His armor was fancier than the others—more spikes, shinier metal, a cape that actually had embroidery. "HALT, INTRUDER! You shall go no further!"
"Okay," Evan said, not halting. He kept walking. "So, real talk: what's the dental plan like here? Because my last job had terrible dental. And the coffee situation—critical question, really important—do you have good coffee, or is it more of a 'we have tea and you'll like it' kind of place?"
The guard swung his sword.
Evan didn't dodge. He didn't even flinch. He just stood there, making direct eye contact, as the blade arced toward his neck.
An inch from his skin, the sword hit something invisible. It vibrated violently—bvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvt—and flew out of the guard's hand, clattering to the floor with a sound of profound embarrassment.
"Oops," Evan said. "Butterfingers."
Another guard fired a crossbow. The bolt streaked toward Evan's chest, moving fast enough to blur.
It stopped. Mid-air. About three inches from his sternum.
It hung there, spinning slowly, like it was reconsidering its life choices.
"Huh," Evan said. He reached out and plucked it from the air. It was warm in his hand. Slightly confused. "Thanks. But I'm not really a crossbow person. More of a 'passive-aggressive aura' guy. You know? Low maintenance. No reloading required."
He handed it back to the stunned guard, who took it automatically, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.
The guards exchanged glances. Helmets turned toward each other. Whispering started.
"Did he just...?"
"I think he just..."
"His hand went right through—"
"The sword literally—"
"Should we try again?"
"I don't WANT to try again. He looks at things and they give up."
Evan walked through their formation. They parted around him like water around a stone. He patted one on the shoulder as he passed—the poor guard flinched like he'd been hit with lightning.
"Good effort," Evan said. "Solid stance. Nice cape. Maybe work on your intimidation faces, though. You look like you're all constipated. Very threatening constipation, but still. Something to think about."
The guard blinked behind his helmet. "Thank... you?"
"Don't mention it." Evan reached the door at the far end. "Alright, we're moving on. Try to have a better day, okay? Maybe ask about that dental plan. Benefits are important."
He pushed the door open. Behind him, fifty guards stood in absolute silence, one of them still holding the returned crossbow bolt like it was a religious artifact.
"Did that just happen?" someone whispered.
"I don't know. I'm not sure reality happened. I think we all hallucinated simultaneously."
"That's not how hallucinations work."
"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CARE HOW HALLUCINATIONS WORK?"
The door closed behind Evan, cutting off the existential crisis.
Ashe drifted beside him, his expression thoughtful. "They were afraid."
"They were confused. Same thing, mostly."
"No. They were afraid. Of you. Your power." Ashe's dark eyes studied him. "I remember that fear. I caused it once."
"You caused a lot of things once. You're different now."
"Am I?"
"Working on it." Evan patted his shadowy shoulder. "That's what matters."
***