Judge sat on the rock like a man whose vending machine just ate his last coin — and then exploded, caught fire, and blamed him for improper usage. He had been walking in circles, chased by reality like a spiteful GPS on crack that had updated its maps based on fever dreams. The forest was no longer just weird. It was wrong.

He had laughed off blinking trees, sneezing bushes, even a centisnake the size of a rickshaw that had tried to sell him insurance. But now, silence was eating into his bones. Not the gentle silence of peace, but the oppressive, suffocating stillness of a place that had forgotten how to breathe — and possibly how to blink.

No wind. No birds. No bugs. Not even his own heartbeat — or maybe it was just too quiet to hear.

"Right," he muttered, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "Flux Zone. Where logic goes to die. And possibly takes your liver with it."

He clutched Golden Eagle, fidgeting with it. Tried to eject the mag. It whirred. Error. Glowed a sad blue.

He'd only stocked ether bullets. Fancy, expensive, lightweight. Fantastic when you had ether.

He now had zero. Nada. Zilch. The ether around him was fluxing in on itself like a dying sun. It wasn't just empty. It was anti-full. It sucked the magic out of your pores and then asked for dessert.

Golden Eagle was now a golden paperweight with delusions of grandeur and a superiority complex.

He slowly stood, sword on his back. That, at least, was still steel. Steel didn't care about magic. Steel just cut.

He took a step.

The sound of his boot echoed. That was weird. It shouldn't have. He took another. Echo again.

"Don't think about it," he whispered.

He absolutely thought about it.

Ahead, the forest had changed. Again. The trees now stood still. Too still. Like they were waiting. Or judging. Or both.

He walked cautiously, every step painfully loud. His breath became mist, though it wasn't cold. The canopy above was wrong — like someone had tried to recreate sky from memory but only had crayons and vague trauma.

Then came the sound. Something low... and wheezing.

Like a dying animal gargling glass. Or a cat stuck in a blender. Or a flute player having a nervous breakdown.

He froze.

He saw nothing.

But he felt it. That pressure. The kind that presses against your lungs, like something too large to name was watching you blink.

He unsheathed his sword slowly. The hiss of metal was a betrayal in this hush.

Then something scuttled.

From tree to tree. Too fast. Too quiet. It didn't thump. It clicked.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Then silence.

Then the sound of teeth.

Grinding. Savoring. Dreaming.

He turned slowly.

And saw it.

Oh.

Oh, that shouldn't exist.

A twisted beast, maybe once a tiger, now little more than rotted muscle and sinew hanging from bone. But not rotting. No decay. No smell. Just...incomplete. Like it was undone halfway. Its skin shimmered like oil, pulsing wrong. Like staring into a bad decision.

Its eyes were empty. Holes. Just holes. Not soulless. Never had one.

It hissed — a high-pitched trill like a kettle boiling over while a violin screamed and a baby cried in reverse.

And it charged.

Judge rolled to the side, barely avoiding the full weight of it. He slashed — sparks flew, his blade deflecting off unnaturally dense muscle. It felt like slicing into refrigerated gristle.

It snapped at him — he ducked, but a claw caught his coat.

Rip

He ran. No shame. Just velocity and healthy survival instincts.

The trees closed in again, now looking closer than they should. His lungs burned.

The monster barreled through the brush behind him, silent now. Silent was worse. Silent meant it had ideas.

He dove behind a tree, pressed against the bark, heart hammering.

Then he felt it.

The bark.

It was breathing.

He yelped and stumbled away. The tree exhaled. No. It groaned. Like it had seen some things.

He didn't look back.

He kept running.

The monster returned, leaping through a branch, crashing against him, sending both sprawling.

Pain flared in his shoulder. He slashed instinctively, cutting through muscle. Black ichor sprayed, steaming as it hit the ground. It smelled like regret and onion soup.

The beast screeched.

Judge scrambled to his feet, bleeding now from his side. The scar from before had opened. It burned.

"Oh great," he gasped, clutching it, "I knew saving ether was a dumb idea. Should've healed it. Should've packed real bullets. Should've stayed in bed with tea and dramatic novels and ignored the call of destiny like a responsible adult. And the worst part, he wasn't even an adult."

The beast circled him.

He feigned weakness.

Then lunged.

He sidestepped, drove the sword into its side, twisting — it screeched and raked its claws along his back.

He screamed.

The blade was stuck.

The beast convulsed, body twitching, frothing at the mouth with static foam.

Then silence again.

No breathing.

Just wet, gurgled silence.

Judge staggered, pulled the blade free.

The beast collapsed.

Twitched once.

He waited.

Waited.

Still waited.

It didn't move.

He sat down, back against a tree that hopefully didn't breathe, wheezing through gritted teeth. His wounds were bad. The blood soaked his clothes. He wasn't dying yet, but the pain was very clear about filing a complaint with upper management.

Then the forest pulsed.

Colors inverted for a second. Then flicked back.

The sky shimmered. Trees waved without wind. The moss shifted patterns. His shoelaces were suddenly tied differently. One sock was gone.

And the sound came again.

Another hiss.

Two this time.

More things were moving. From the treeline. From above. Something dropped something. Judge didn't want to know what.

"I take it back," he muttered, getting up with a groan, "This is definitely Mom's fault. Somehow. I just know it. This has her signature passive-aggressive chaos energy written all over it."

He staggered forward. Deeper. Trying not to cry. Trying not to scream. Trying not to fall apart.

He was Judge. He could handle this. Probably. Hopefully.

The flux pulsed again. And the forest laughed. Or maybe that was just him.

But somewhere in the distance, the trees rearranged.