Aug. 10, 2025

Night Market (Part 3) - "What Binds Us"

Night Market (Part 3) - "What Binds Us"

As the silver thread pulls Ava deeper into the market's reality, she begins manifesting there during daylight hours while slowly fading from the normal world. Discovering that Kieran has been trapped for sixty-three years after a failed attempt to save his dying fiancée, Ava learns the true horror of the Collector's methods—it doesn't just take what people trade, it continues feeding on them until nothing remains.

When reality itself begins bleeding between dimensions, Kieran proposes a desperate gambit: instead of trying to escape the connection, they could share it, creating a bond the Collector has never encountered. Their choice to merge their silver threads creates something powerful enough to begin unraveling the web, but it also breaks the barriers keeping the Collector contained to the new moon. Now free to hunt in the real world, an ancient and terrible presence is preparing to reclaim what it considers stolen property, and Ava and Kieran have become the bridge it will use to invade reality itself.

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Caloroga Shark Media Welcome to the Night Market, a special

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Romance Weekly and Ghost Scary Stories crossover event. This is

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episode three, What Binds Us? The whispers started before I

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even made it home. At first, I thought they were

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coming from my car, radio static voices bleeding through between stations.

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But when I turned the radio off completely, they were

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still there, emanating from the speakers, the air vents, the

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very upholstery of my seats. Soft conversations in languages I

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didn't recognize, punctuated by my name, spoken in tones that

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made my skin crawl. Avenue Ava, Kim, She's coming home

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to us soon. By the time I reached my apartment building,

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the voices had multiplied into a chorus. They whispered from

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the elevator buttons as I pressed them, echoed from the

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fluorescent lights in the hallway, murmured from behind the doors

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of my neighbors, Neighbors who should have been asleep at

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two a m. But whose apartments now glowed with the

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same amber light I'd seen spilling from the market. My

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hands shook as I fumbled with my keys. The silver

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thread in my chest pulsed with each whisper, growing warmer

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and more insistent. I could feel something tugging on the

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other end, not physically, but deeper than that. Something was

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reeling me in like a fish on a line, and

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every breath made the line shorter. I locked the door

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behind me and sagged against it, but the relief lasted

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only seconds. The whispers were inside my apartment, now coming

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from the walls, the floor, the air itself, And when

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I flicked on the lights, my reflection in the hallway

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mirror made me scream. I was translucent, not completely. I

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could still see myself clearly, but there was a quality

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to my reflection that hadn't been there before, Like I

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was a photograph that had been left in the sun

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too long, slowly fading around the edges. I pressed my

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hand against the mirror, and for a terrifying moment, I

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could see through my palm to the wall behind it.

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She's coming apart, one of the voices observed, with clinical interest.

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The thread is drawing her essence back to us. Soon,

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there won't be enough left to anchor her to this reality. No,

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I whispered, backing away from the mirror. This isn't real.

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I'm just tired, just stressed. People don't fade. People don't.

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The lights flickered, and suddenly I wasn't in my apartment anymore.

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I was standing in the market, surrounded by the familiar

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maze of stalls and amber lanterns. But something was wrong

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with the overlay. I could see both realities at once,

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like a double exposed photograph. My kitchen table occupied the

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same space as a stall selling bottled dreams. My couch

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sat where a vendor hawked stolen youth, and through it

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all the other customers wandered their eternal paths, their silver

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threads glowing brighter in the darkness. This isn't possible, I

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said aloud, but my voice echoed strangely, as if it

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was coming from very far away. Everything is possible when

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you belong to us, The collector's voice rumbled through both realities.

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The boundaries between worlds grow thin for our collections. Soon

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you won't need the new moon to visit. Soon, you

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won't be able to leave at all. The overlay lasted

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only a few seconds before my apartment snapped back into focus,

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but the message was clear. I was being pulled into

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the market's reality, whether I wanted to be or not.

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The silver thread wasn't just connecting me to the collector.

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It was slowly dragging me across the dimensional divide. I

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spent the rest of the night huddled on my couch,

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afraid to look in any reflective surface, afraid to close

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my eyes in case I woke up somewhere else entirely,

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But exhaustion eventually won, and I dozed fitfully. As dawn approached,

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I woke up in the market, not my apartment, overlaid

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with market imagery, the actual market, with the familiar sense

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impossible spices, and the warm glow of lanterns overhead. I

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was lying on the ground between two stools, and concerned

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vendors were gathering around me, like I was some kind

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of curiosity She's manifesting during daylight. A woman with moth

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wings whispered to her companion, I've never seen the pool

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work so quickly, new soul, the other replied, examining me

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with eyes like black pearls. The collector must be very

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hungry or very interested. I scrambled to my feet, panic,

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clawing at my throat. How am I here? The market

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only appears during the new moon. The market appears when

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the collector wills it, the moth winged woman said gently,

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for most that's only during the new moon, but for

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special collections. She gestured to my chest, where the silver

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thread was now visible, pulsing with its own light. The

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rules bend. I followed the thread's path through the maze

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of stalls, pushing past customers who watched me with expressions

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of pity and hunger. Some reached out as I passed,

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trying to touch the thread, and when they did, I

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felt flashes of their memories, fragments of lives traded away,

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peace by peace, until nothing remained but the endless search

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for wholeness. A man who traded his ability to love

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for perfect eloquence, now giving speeches to empty rooms. A

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woman who sold her sense of time for eternal youth,

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trapped in a single moment that stretched into forever. Children

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who'd bartered their capacity for joy in exchange for adult wisdom,

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now ancient in minds that would never again no wonder,

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all of them connected to the web, all of them

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feeding the thing that waited in the shadows. The thread

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led me to kieran stall, where he stood with his

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back to me, shoulders rigid with tension. He was talking

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to someone I couldn't see. His voice, low and urgent

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told you she wasn't ready. The integration period should be longer,

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give her time to adjust. The collector grows impatient. Came

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a voice like grinding stone. She carries flavors we have

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not tasted in centuries. Her connections run deep, to family,

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to craft, to dreams not yet abandoned. She will feed

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us well. And when she's hollow, like the rest of them,

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when there's nothing left to extract, you'll discard her and

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move on to the next victim, as we always have,

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as we always will. Your objections are noted and dismissed. Honey, merchant,

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you have your own debts to consider. Kieran's hands clenched

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into fists, and I could see silver threads extending from

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his own body, dozens of them, far more than any

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other customer. They wrapped around his arms like chains, connecting

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him to the web with bonds that looked impossible to break. Kieran,

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I called softly. He spun around, and the relief in

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his eyes was overwhelming, but it was quickly replaced by

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horror as he took in my translucent state. Ava. You

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shouldn't be here, not during daylight. The polls shouldn't be

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strong enough yet yet I stepped closer, studying the threads

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that bound him. How long have you been planning this?

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How long have you known exactly what would happen to me?

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His expression crumbled longer than I want to admit, but

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not by choice. I swear to you, I'm bound to

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this place, trapped by debts I accumulated trying to save

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someone else. He looked away, someone I loved. The grinding

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voice spoke again, though I still couldn't see its source.

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Tell her the story, honey, merchant. Tell her how you

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came to us, full of noble intentions and foolish hope.

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Perhaps she will learn from your mistakes. Kieran's jaw tightened,

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but he began to speak, his voice hollow with old pain.

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Her name was Elina, my fiance. She was dying cancer.

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The doctor said there was nothing they could do. But

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I'd heard rumors, stories about places where impossible things could

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be brought for the right price. So I went looking.

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The market around us seemed to darken as he spoke,

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the amber light growing dim and cold. I found them

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on a new moon in Barcelona, in an alley that

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shouldn't have existed. They offered me a cure for Elena,

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a vial of liquid starlight that would burn the cancer

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from her body and restore her to perfect health. The

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price was my freedom, ten years of service, feeding them customers,

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luring the desperate and hungry into their web. My stomach clenched,

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But you saved her. I thought I had his voice cracked.

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The cure worked. Elena's cancer disappeared overnight, her strength returned,

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her color came back. For three beautiful months, we planned

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our wedding. We were going to have the ceremony in

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her grandmother's garden, surrounded by roses and fairy lights. And

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then he paused, struggling with the memory. Then she started

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forgetting things, little things at first, where she'd put her keys,

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the name of our favorite restaurant. But it got worse.

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The cure hadn't just removed the cancer. It had removed

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part of her soul, the part that held her memories,

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her personality, everything that made her a lanor. By the end,

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she looked at me like a stranger. She died six

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months later, not from cancer, but from forgetting how to live.

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Tears streamed down my face as the full horror of

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his situation became clear, And your ten years of service

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became forever, the grinding voice interjected with cruel satisfaction. The

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contract specified that his service would end when the recipient

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was fully healed, but since she died, the debt remains unpaid.

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He has been with us for sixty ths three years now,

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watching hundreds of souls make the same bargain he did

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sixty three years. I looked at Kieran with new eyes,

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seeing now the weight he carried, the ageless quality that

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I'd mistaken for natural beauty. He'd been trapped here since

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the nineteen sixties, forced to watch as person after person

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fell into the same web that had claimed him. Why

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didn't you warn me away more forcefully, I asked, Because

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I can't, he said, simply. The threads prevent me from

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directly interfering with the collector's will. I can offer warnings

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express concern, but I cannot refuse a customer who insists

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on making a trade. If I try, the silver threads

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around his arms tightened and he gasped in pain. If

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I try, the punishment is severe. The market shuddered around us,

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and I realized with growing alarm that my apartment was

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bleeding through again. I could see my kitchen, through the

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honey stool, my bedroom door, overlapping with a vendor selling dreams.

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The two realities were merging, and I was the catalyst.

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What's happening. You're becoming a bridge, Kieran said urgently. The

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thread is strong enough now to pull pieces of the

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market into your world. Soon everyone you care about will

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be at risk. The collector will be able to reach

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them through you. The thought of my mother, my editor,

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even my distant friends being pulled into this nightmare because

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of my choices made me physically sick. But worse than

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that was the growing certainty that I was running out

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of time. My body was becoming more translucent by the minute,

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and I could feel my thoughts becoming scattered, harder to

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hold on to. There has to be a way to

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break the connection, I said desperately. The grinding voice laughed,

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a sound like bones breaking. The only way to break

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the thread is death, and even then, the soul belongs

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to us. Would you like to see the others who

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tried The web in the shadows suddenly lit up with

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thousands of points of light, Souls trapped within its structure,

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still conscious, still suffering, unable to escape even in death.

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Their whispers rose in a chorus of despair, calling out

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warnings and pleas that fell on deaf ears. But Kieran

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was studying me with an intensity that made my chest tight.

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There might be another way, he said, slowly, something the

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collector has never encountered before. Impossible, the voice snarled. We

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have seen every form of resistance, every desperate gambit. Humans

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are predictable in their selfishness. But what if someone chose

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to share the burden instead of escape it. Kieran's storm

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gray eyes locked onto mine. What if two people willingly

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connected their threads, creating a bond stronger than the collector's control.

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I felt something shift in the air around us, attention

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that hadn't been there before. The grinding voice fell silent,

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and even the other customers stopped their wandering to stare

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at us. That's never been tried, i whispered, because no

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one has ever cared enough about another person to risk it.

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Kieran replied. The market feeds on isolation, on people so

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desperate and alone that they'll trade anything for a moment

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of connection. But genuine love, freely given. He reached out

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toward me, his hand stopping just short of my cheek

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that might be something it can't digest. The very air

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seemed to recoil from the idea. The amber lanterns flickered,

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the ground trembled, and the whispers from the web rose

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to a shriek of rage. No, the collector's voice roared

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through both realities. You will not poison our collection with

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your sentiment. The girl belongs to us, as do you.

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Any attempt to interfere will result in immediate collection of

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all debts. But I was already reaching for Kieran's hand,

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drawn by something deeper than desperation. Maybe it was the

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way he'd tried to warn me despite the cost to himself.

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Maybe it was the sixty three years of suffering I

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could see in his eyes. Or maybe it was simply that,

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in a place designed to isolate and consume, he was

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the only real connection i'd found. Our fingers touched and

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the world exploded into light. The market screamed, not just

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the collector, but the very structure of the place itself,

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as if something fundamental had been violated. My silver thread,

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which had been pulling me steadily toward the web, suddenly

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snapped taut and began to vibrate like a guitar string.

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Kiiran's dozens of threads did the same, creating a harmony

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that cut through the collector's roar like a blade. And then, impossibly,

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our threads began to merge, not just connecting, actually weaving

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together into something new, something that pulsed with its own

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power instead of feeding the web. The sensation was indescribable,

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like suddenly being able to see colours that had never

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existed before. I could feel Kieran's thoughts, his memories, his

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emotions flowing into me, while mine flowed into him sixty

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three years of pain and regret, but also hope, stubborn,

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hope that had never died despite everything he'd endured. This

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is impossible. The collector's voice had lost its confidence, taking

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on a note of what might have been fear. Bonds

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forged in our realm belonged to us. You cannot, But

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the merged thread was growing brighter, stronger, and where its

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light touched the web, the structure began to unravel. Other

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customers looked up in wonder as their own threads loosened,

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some of them crying as they felt fragments of themselves returning.

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We have to go, Kieran, said urgently, his voice now

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carrying an echo that resonated in my bones. The collector

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will try to sever the connection before it spreads. I nodded,

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But as we turned to leave, the market around us

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began to collapse, not physically structurally, The carefully maintained separation

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between realities was breaking down, and I could see my apartment,

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the alley, the normal world, all occupying the same space simultaneously.

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It's following us, I gasped, as we ran toward what

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might have been the exit. The connection is pulling it

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into our world. Behind us, something vast and terrible was

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moving through the collapsing dimensions, determined to reclaim what it

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considered its property. The other customers scattered, some fading back

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into the shadows, while others seemed to gain substance, becoming

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more real than they'd been in years. We burst through

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the gap between realities and stumbled into the alley, but

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the amber light was spreading, spilling out into the normal

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world like a infection. Street lights flickered and changed color.

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Windows in nearby buildings began showing impossible views, forests that

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had never existed, oceans under alien stars, markets from a

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dozen different dimensions, all bleeding through at once. What have

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we done? I whispered, watching Seattle transform around us. Kiran

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squeezed my hand and I felt his determination flow through

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our connection. We've given the others a chance for the

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first time in centuries. Some of them might actually escape,

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but the cost was becoming clear. By breaking the collector's

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control over our threads, we'd also broken the barriers that

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kept it contained to the new Moon. Now it was

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free to hunt in our world, and it was very,

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very angry. The whispering chorus that had followed me home

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was nothing compared to what was coming now. I could

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feel it approaching through the dimensions, a presence so vast

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and hungry that reality itself was bending to accommodate it.

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We need to find somewhere safe, I said, pulling Kieran

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toward my car. There is nowhere safe, he replied, but

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he followed anyway, not anymore. We're connected to it now,

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all three of us. It will follow wherever we go.

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As we drove through streets that flickered between normal Seattle

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and impossible otherwhere, I realized he was right. The merged

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thread in my chest wasn't just connecting us to each other,

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it was still connected to the collector, creating a three

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way bond that pulsed with tension and potential. We'd freed

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ourselves from the web, but we'd also given our enemy

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a direct path into our world. And, judging by the

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way the sky was beginning to fracture, showing glimpses of

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that terrible presence pressing against the boundaries of reality, we

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had very little time before it arrived in full force.

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The hunt was about to begin.