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Elara wasn't standing on dusty floorboards anymore. She was standing on a platform of white obsidian. Above her, the sky was not blue, but a swirling tapestry of violet and grey, devoid of a sun. Beneath the platform, an ocean of ink-black water stretched to infinity.

The black water below began to churn, hungry.

"Grandpa was a watchman," Elara said, her voice steady. "He stood guard." en52wmb

the voice replied. "YOUR GRANDFATHER WAS THE PREVIOUS OPERATOR. EARTH-PRIME IS EXPERIENCING A CRITICAL CASCADE FAILURE. THIS REALITY IS THE SANDBOX."

She hesitated. The house was silent. Outside, the suburban neighborhood hummed with the mundane sounds of lawn mowers and distant traffic. It felt ridiculous. It felt like a game. Elara wasn't standing on dusty floorboards anymore

Or, she could stay.

That could yield a phrase: .

A voice emanated from the block. It didn't come from a speaker; it vibrated through her bones, resonating in her teeth.