Loop. Surrender. Sight.
The words struck through him—heavy and electric, impressed straight into the hollow of his chest.
This is how you begin.
Zahir hovered in the impossible suspension—weightless, every nerve lit. His mind scrabbled for footholds.
What was happening to him?
He reached instinctively for some framework, some grid, anything that could explain it—Lattice overlay, Lattice scripts—
Nothing fit.
His mind clung to the sequence, trying to find the logic, the rhythm, the why.
Loop. Surrender. Sight.
They felt like... steps. Or coordinates. Or commandments. No, not commandments. Invitations?
Loop.
His thoughts skidded back to the image—the circle drawn in ash, breaking and reforming without end. A rhythm he recognized too well.
Survive. Fight. Scrape by. Survive again.
It wasn't just a pattern. It was a cage. Something deep inside him burned—sharp and hollow.
Was that what this place wanted from him? Not just to see the cycle—but to admit he was trapped inside it?
Surrender.
The second image—the cupped hands, leaking water no matter how tightly they clutched—landed inside him like a blade.
It was a truth he had spent his whole life refusing. He had never learned how to let go. Control had been his armor. And the thing he chased without ever really catching.
Part of him still clung to it—fierce, exhausted, unwilling to imagine surviving without it.
But maybe...
Sight.
Eyes opening where none should be. Not looking outward. Looking in.
Seeing yourself—
The images didn't just show him something. They peeled him open.
Zahir's chest cinched tight, instinct snapping to life. He started looking for an exit. Any exit.
But the space shifted around him. The deep pulse in his chest, the one he hadn't even realized he'd been synchronizing with, stopped.
And in the silence that followed, he felt it—an offer. Another uncanny sense of knowing broadcast directly to his center.
Like a hand extended, open and waiting.
Zahir hung weightless in the pressure of it, every reflex screaming to move, to fight, to run. But somehow, he knew—this wasn't a test he could pass by surviving.
He had to give something back. Something he wasn't sure he even knew how to give.
But what?
His mind scrambled for answers. Words, maybe? A name? His name?
"I'm—" he started, but the sound didn't carry. It just… vanished, like a pebble dropped into a bottomless well.
Nothing stirred. He tried again, louder this time. "Zahir Mercer."
Still nothing. No echo. No shift. The space wasn't rejecting the answer, it just seemed—unimpressed.
He suppressed panic tugging at the edge of his ribs. 'What do you want from me?'
No answer. Just silence so complete it pressed against his teeth.
He closed his eyes. Think, dummy. Think. If this place didn't want words, maybe it wanted…He moved his hand. Slowly. Tentatively. Traced a circle in the air like the one from the vision.
The chamber did not respond.
He pressed his palms together. Bowed his head. Nothing. He clenched his jaw. The silence continued to press on him.
"Come on," he hissed. "I'm trying. What do you want?"
He took a deep breath. He looked all around. Still—nothing. No. Not nothing. He focused on the pressure, trying to sense it more clearly.
He understood it now: The pressure wasn't on his voice. It was on him.
A pressure folding against the shape of his soul. And beneath that, a worse truth cracked loose—raw, painful, real.
This wasn't about what he could say. Or what he could fight for. Or what he could run from. It wanted him to feel. Zahir squeezed his eyes shut.
Feel.
The worst answer. The most dangerous thing you could do in the Slant.
That was how you got gutted.
Zahir let out a low, shaking breath.
"Okay," he muttered. "You want real?"
His hand hovered near his chest—uncertain, furious. Then he curled it into a fist.
"Fine."
He pulled his coat open. Reached inside the collar of his shirt, hooked his finger around a gold chain, and pulled out a small, circular pendant—glass-faced, its edges dulled with time.
He opened his palm and looked down at it. The face inside stared out at him. Beard. Bald head. Cocky smile. He hadn't planned on looking at it again tonight.
"You want something back? Here."
His voice cracked on the last word.
"This is all I got."
He let the pendant float from his hand. It didn't fall. The space took it—accepted it.
A ripple spread outward where it vanished, brushing against some unseen boundary and bouncing back.
The returning waves carried something new—small pulses of meaning, stitching themselves into the space behind his ribs, beating in time with his heart.
The First Formula A name you buried. A wound you feed. A truth you'd kill to protect. Speak them true. Hold them still. Balance the weight. Or remain unformed.
Zahir swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the spot where the pendant had disappeared.
He didn't know how he knew—but he knew. This was the thing Elai had talked about. The moment when your Signature stops being theory and starts being you.
Only, it wasn't neat. He had always imagined rows of numbers, alchemetrical symbols, fancy diagrams or lines of code that he could type out. Hell, he would take any brain-breaking equation over this fuzzy emotional shit.
The formula echoed inside him. He knew, again, that he had to give something.
A name. A wound. A truth sharp enough to kill for.
'Fuck!'
A thread of heat passed down his spine. Something older than anger or shame.
His expression softened into a look of doubt as he whispered into the silence—
"What if I can't?"