June 20th, 1983
As Wren moved deeper through the library, she saw him again.
Arlo.
He was walking silently down the aisle ahead of her, a book tucked beneath one arm.
Her breath caught.
Even from a distance, she could read the label on its spine.
Wren Cromwell — Personal Files
The exact book she needed.
The exact book that could get her out of this hell.
For one reckless moment, she wanted to call out to him.
To shout his name.
To demand he turn around.
But the memory of the library's rules stopped her cold.
So instead, she followed.
Arlo never looked back. He simply kept walking, turning one corner after another, always just far enough ahead to stay out of reach. Each time Wren thought she was about to catch up, he would vanish around the next shelf, drawing her farther in.
The library had become an endless maze.
Too large.
Too quiet.
Too full of eyes she could not see.
With every step, the sensation of being watched only deepened, as though something hidden between the shelves was observing her with breathless patience.
Then Arlo turned one final corner.
Wren followed—
and stopped.
The narrow aisles had opened into a vast chamber.
At its center sat a long dining table.
Arlo was gone.
In his place sat another familiar face.
Faker.
This time, his clothes had changed. Gone was the medieval refinement of the banquet hall. Now he was dressed like a scholar, an elegant intellectual from some forgotten century—a librarian, perhaps. His attire was immaculate, his posture relaxed, his crimson eyes bright with quiet amusement.
The table before him was almost completely full.
All but one seat was occupied.
At each of the nine filled chairs sat a member of the Erebus research staff.
Or rather—
what was left of them.
Their bodies had been corrupted, though not in the same grotesque, total way Wren had seen before. Their heads were stretched and warped, their skin turned a sickly yellow, their features subtly ruined as though something had pressed against the shape of their humanity without quite tearing through it.
The change was incomplete.
Controlled.
Refined.
Not as catastrophic as Azathoth's direct touch.
Wren's stomach turned.
So August really had found another method using the photograph.
Each of the seated researchers slumped lifelessly over the table.
And in every skull, a kitchen knife had been driven down to the hilt.
Their heads rested awkwardly against the polished wood, as if frozen in the middle of some final, silent meal.
Faker sat calmly at the head of the table, looking perfectly at ease among the dead.
And in his hands—
resting lightly against his lap like a gift he had been waiting to present—
was the book Wren had been searching for.
"I thought you were just a dream," Wren muttered.
"At the time, I was," Faker said. "At present, I am not."
A faint smile curved across his face as he extended a hand toward the only empty chair at the table, the one closest to him.
"Please," he said softly. "Take a seat, my dearest."
Wren didn't move at first.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the book in his hands.
"I need that file."
Faker glanced down at it, almost fondly.
"And you shall have it," he said. "After we finish our conversation."
He let out a quiet laugh.
"There is no need to keep your voice low here. I have already broken the rule against violence, and yet, as you can see, I remain quite safe." His crimson eyes lifted to hers. "Rules are chains for the weak. Under my protection, you are allowed to be strong."
Wren hesitated, then slowly took the offered seat.
The chair scraped softly against the floor.
As she sat down, she could have sworn one of the corpses at the table shifted.
Just slightly.
A twitch of the shoulder.
A small, wet sound.
She froze.
Faker either didn't notice or chose not to acknowledge it.
"Now then," he said, folding his hands neatly in front of him, "before we eat, I thought it might be amusing to play a small game."
Wren's stomach tightened.
"What kind of game?"
Faker lifted the book in his hands.
"I have read this file," he said, making a little gesture with his fingers around the name as if quoting it. "This tidy collection of facts labeled Wren Cromwell."
His smile thinned.
"And yet, I find it unsatisfying."
He tilted his head.
"It tells me many things about your life, but very little about you. It is like trying to assemble a puzzle while half the pieces are still missing."
He rested the file against the edge of the table.
"So our little game is simple. We will ask one another questions."
His gaze sharpened with interest.
"And of course… lying is forbidden."
Wren stared at him.
"And what happens if I lie?"
For the first time, Faker looked almost offended.
"My lady," he said, placing a hand against his chest, "do not mistake me for the sort of monster who kills over broken rules."
Then he smiled again.
"I would simply be disappointed in you."
"Fine," Wren said, her eyes locked on his. "Then I'll ask the first question."
Her fingers curled tightly against her lap.
"Have you ever been in love before?"
Faker's smile deepened, amused.
"What a fascinating choice for your opening question."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her like a man admiring a particularly interesting page in a favorite book.
"Are you angry with me," he asked softly, "for using your dead lover to lure you here?"
Wren said nothing.
Faker let out a quiet chuckle.
"Yes," he said at last. "I have loved."
For the first time, something almost tender crossed his expression.
"My dearest Mordred. Even now, the mere thought of her is enough to soothe my soul."
The fondness in his voice was real.
And somehow, that made him even worse.
Faker rested one elbow against the arm of his chair and tilted his head.
"Now tell me," he said, his crimson eyes never leaving hers, "what was passing through your mind when you killed Arlo?"
His smile thinned into something more knowing.
"Since you have chosen to make this a conversation about love… let us play accordingly."
Wren's hands clenched so hard her nails bit into her palms.
Every instinct in her screamed to stand up, to snatch the book from his hands, to smash his face into the table and run.
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
So she answered.
"I hate myself," she said quietly.
The words felt like poison leaving her mouth.
"Even if I had to do it… even if it was the only way to save him, I still hate that it was me." Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to keep going. "I hate that I had to kill the only person I have ever loved."
Her eyes lowered.
"The only person I have ever truly cared about in this world."
For once, Faker did not interrupt.
When she finished, he gave a slow nod.
"I understand that feeling," he said.
His voice had gone almost gentle.
"In all my life, there have only been three people I have ever truly respected… or cared for."
He smiled.
"Of course, you are the third."
His fingers tapped lightly against the book.
"But my beloved Mordred was the first."
Wren looked back up sharply.
"So then answer my next question," she said, her glare hardening again. "What do you know about Azathoth?"
Faker's expression brightened at once.
"Far too much," he said.
Then he laughed softly.
"But if I were to tell you everything now, it would spoil the experience of this little endeavor, would it not?"
He rose one finger, as though lecturing in some grand hall.
"What I will tell you is this: Azathoth is ancient. Far older than your facility. Far older than your species understands. Far older than I."
His smile widened.
"It is an entity that has existed upon this Earth since nearly the beginning of the world itself."
The candlelight seemed to dim around him.
"A child," Faker said, almost reverently, "born from the union of a god… and a dying star."
Faker smiled, as though he had been waiting for this moment all along.
"Now," he said softly, folding his hands atop the table, "for my next question."
His crimson eyes locked onto hers.
"Are you aware of the traitor in your little group?"
Wren went still.
For the first time since entering the room, her composure cracked completely.
Her eyes widened.
"A traitor…?" she repeated, barely above a whisper.
But Faker only kept smiling.
He offered no explanation.
No name.
No hint.
Only that look on his face—that look that said he had just placed a blade between the ribs of her thoughts and intended to leave it there.
And suddenly, the silence of the banquet hall felt much colder.
June 20th, 1983
On this day, the second banquet took place between Wren Cromwell and Faker Mimic.
It ended with the planting of a new poison:
doubt.