As he moved through the dimly lit corridor, his eyes scanned the area—searching for anything useful. That’s when he spotted a note wedged between a rusted filing cabinet and the floor.

------------------------------------------------

[DOCUMENT LOG: MATTHEW HALLARD]

For all intents and purposes, Matthew Hallard is a dream child.

He’s thoughtful, kind, considerate, understanding. And while maybe not as intelligent as some of the other children (averaging only B to C level work in school), nor as physically gifted, he MORE than makes up for it in his charm and charisma.

There’s NOBODY down here who isn’t fond of the boy. It’s just a shame that he came to us already a boy of fifteen, well into his puberty. Most parents look for a child a lot younger. He understands.

Though he rarely speaks on it, I know Matthew suffers from deep insecurities. I’ve read the reports on the accident that put him here. He blames himself for the family he couldn’t save. I believe he’s on the road to healing, but the way is long. And nobody mourns the same.

He’s become something of a leader to the younger children, even reading them books late into the afternoon (we allow it, sorry). “The Adventures of the Word Wizard” is his favorite. They listen to him when he breaks up fights in the Playhouse and hang on almost every word he says. Seeing him like this, assuming this role, I think it’s what he needs. Should he age out, I might even request bringing him onto staff.

— Claire Harper

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Just beneath it, another note was scrawled in smaller, rougher handwriting.

(He is a good candidate for 1322C, should his personality mesh with the other two. But please, be gentle if you pick him. He’s a fine young man. The future we’re fighting for would be a waste if we sacrifice too many like him.)

— Stella

-------------------------------------------------

His breath hitched.

1322C.

The same designation from the tape.

Doey…

The realization twisted inside him like a knife. Doey wasn’t just one person. He was a piece of someone—a fusion of lives bound together. And Matthew…

Matthew was one of them.

He clenched his fists, nausea bubbling in his stomach.

Before he could dwell on it further, a door in the corner of the room caught his attention. The words "NO MAN’S LAND" were painted over it in large, jagged letters.

He stepped forward.

And then—

RING.

A nearby phone buzzed violently, crackling with static. He jumped, his nerves still raw from what he’d just read.

Through the distortion, a familiar voice bled through.

Ollie: (Static) “Hey, hey—can you hear me? … (Static) There’s some— (Static) When you get the Omni-Hand— (Static) Hopefully it’s nothing. (Static) Might not be— (Static)”

Then, silence.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Shaking it off, he turned back toward the gate ahead, its scanner dull and inactive. He’d need to restore power first.



Fixing the power was simple enough.

As soon as he scanned his GrabPack, the massive steel gate groaned open…



And his stomach dropped.

Standing in the doorway—illuminated only by the flickering red light above—was Yarnaby.



A towering, hunched figure wrapped in coiling strands of fabric, its oversized, buttoned eyes locked onto him.

He barely had time to react before the creature lunged.



His legs moved before his brain could catch up.

"NOPE, NOPE, NOPE— NOT TODAY, YARN MONSTER!"

He sprinted left, spotting another yellow door flickering open. He threw himself through the crack, barely squeezing past before Yarnaby’s claws raked the air behind him.

THUD!

The door slammed shut, buying him a precious second.

His momentum carried him forward—straight onto a steep slope.

"OH, COME ON—"

Gravity did the rest.

He slid down, the rough metal grating scraping beneath him as he tumbled into darkness.

Silence.

His breathing was ragged as he peeled himself off the ground.

For a brief moment, he thought he’d lost Yarnaby.

And then he heard it.

A whisper-soft creak.

A thread tightening.

His eyes darted around. Nothing. But that didn’t mean anything.

Yarnaby wasn’t like the others.

He didn’t chase.

He likes to play with his prey first.

Stealth-based. Great.

Which meant every step, every breath, every single movement had to be silent.

"This is fine," he muttered under his breath, "I'm great at being quiet. I'm like a ninja. A very terrified ninja."

His objective was clear: Restore the three power terminals and open the exit.

Without getting caught.

Which was going to be a problem.

Because Yarnaby was here.

Somewhere.

Moving without a sound.

He reached the first terminal, hand hovering over the switch.

And then—

A creak.

A shadow shifted in the doorway across from him.

He froze.

Yarnaby’s button eyes gleamed from the dark.



It had already found him.

He had two options: Stay. Or run.

Option one: A terrible idea.

Option two: Slightly less terrible.

He bolted.

A SNAP of fabric.



A claw swung—barely missing his face as he threw himself into a nearby locker.

Slam. Hold breath. Pray.

Through the narrow slits, he saw Yarnaby pause.

It knew he was close.

It tilted its head.

Then—



It reached out.

"OH HELL NO—"

He dove out of the locker just in time as Yarnaby’s claw ripped through it, metal shrieking.



He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

The second terminal was near a set of broken pipes.

He moved carefully, easing the lever into place.

And then—

A faint snap of fabric above.

Oh. No.

His head shot up—just in time to see Yarnaby hanging from the ceiling, peering directly down at him.

"NOPE! NOPE! HARD PASS!"

He threw himself to the side as Yarnaby dropped, claws slamming into the ground where he’d just stood.



Two down. One to go.

With the power restored, he sprinted toward the final lever.



Yarnaby was right behind him.

The door required a manual pull-down—which meant he’d have to turn his back.

Which was exactly what Yarnaby was waiting for.

"Okay, think, THINK—"

And then he had an idea.

The moment he reached the handle, he stomped his foot against the ground—hard.

The sharp sound sent Yarnaby lunging too early, crashing against the wall.

That was all he needed.

He yanked the lever, the door whirring open.

Yarnaby screeched, already recovering.



But he was faster.

He threw himself through the exit, the doors slamming shut behind him.

Silence.

For a long moment, he just... laid there.

Then, he exhaled.

"I hate that thing."

Yarnaby might be trapped for now.

But deep down, he knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The massive gate ahead loomed over him, its scanners flickering to life as he approached.

He hesitated for only a second before slamming his GrabPack hands onto the pads.

Beeeeep!



The door rumbled—unlocking.

And behind him—

CLANG.

HIS ESCAPE DOORS BLEW OPEN.

"Oh, COME ON!"



A guttural, fabric-wrapped shriek tore through the room. He didn’t need to turn around to know what was coming.

Yarnaby.

And this time, the bastard was unleashed.

He bolted forward the moment the doors parted, weaving through the narrow corridors as Yarnaby’s claws slashed behind him.

The path was twisting, looping him into a furnace room, the heat pounding against his skin.

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS FIRE?! WHO DESIGNED THIS NIGHTMARE?!"

Metal catwalks creaked beneath his frantic footsteps as he dashed up the walkway, turning sharply around the next bend.

Yarnaby was relentless.

No more sneaking. No more stalking.

It was pure, rabid pursuit.

The path ended abruptly.

A gap. A massive one.

And no way across.

"Well, that’s just rude—"

His eyes shot up—and there it was.

A chain.

Swingable.

Perfect.

Behind him, Yarnaby let out a monstrous hiss, closing in.

He jumped.

Grabpack snapped around the cold metal links, the weight of his body jerking the chain hard.

"OH SH—"

He swung—legs flailing—soaring across the gap, the heat from the furnaces licking at his feet below.

Then—

CRASH.

He rolled onto the other side, pain jolting through his shoulder.

But he wasn’t dead.

And that was a win.

Except—

"Wait. Where’s—"

SNAP.

His head jerked up.

Yarnaby had jumped after him.



But—

Something was wrong.

The momentum of his leap had backfired.

The creature’s limbs tangled in a hanging chain, the fabric of its body twisting and tightening, trapping him midair.



Yarnaby writhed desperately, button-eyes widening in what could only be fear.

It realized.

It was stuck.

And below—

The raging furnaces burned hungrily, waiting.

For the first time, Yarnaby looked helpless.