The fall didn't end.
It folded.
Space compressed into layers thinner than thought. Sound ceased to be sound—it became pressure. Then, silence again.
When they arrived, it wasn't onto a floor. It was into presence.
Like stepping inside someone else's breath.
---
The ground beneath them was velvet-dark, yet held weight. Stars swam beneath the surface—tiny points of light trapped like fossils in obsidian. Above, no ceiling, only a column of cascading geometry. Fractal shapes interlocked in patterns that whispered to the soul.
The Cube hovered ahead.
No longer gold and black. It now pulsed with crimson.
The Third stepped forward.
"This is the Verge."
Plato looked around. "Of what?"
"Memory? Identity?" Lira offered.
The Third shook his head.
"Of Consciousness."
Behind them, doors opened. Not doors in the traditional sense. They were outlines—rectangular gaps in reality. From them emerged figures in long robes of pale fiber. No faces. No arms. Just motion. They moved like wind made flesh.
"Archivists," the Third whispered.
They bowed.
One approached Lira, offering something wrapped in silk.
A blade.
No handle. No edge. Just a shard of her own reflection.
She hesitated.
"Take it," the Third said. "You'll need it when the city asks who you are."
---
They walked through the Verge.
Every step passed through the shadow of forgotten moments—memories neither theirs nor belonging to any single version. A mother's scream. A child's question. Rain falling on metal flowers. A name that never finished being spoken.
At the end of the corridor, a shape waited.
It was a throne.
Empty.
But humming.
"Who sits here?" Plato asked.
"No one," the Third said. "That's the danger."
A beat.
"This is the Prime Seat. The Anchor of All Recall. If it's filled…"
He trailed off.
"…every version begins to resolve."
Lira stepped forward. "That's good, isn't it?"
"No," Plato said quietly. "Because the winner becomes true. Everyone else burns."
Silence.
And then… a voice.
Not loud. Not soft. Just unavoidable.
"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE."
They turned.
From the dark came a figure.
It looked like Plato.
But taller. Crueler. Hollow-eyed.
"I'm the Anchor That Was Supposed to Happen," it said.
Plato froze.
Lira raised her shard-blade.
The Third closed his eyes. "This is your Prime Variant."
The figure stepped closer.
"You ran. I didn't. I accepted the city's truth. You denied it."
It turned to the others.
"He'll burn your names. He'll erase your weights."
It reached into its chest and pulled out a chain of masks.
"Choose," it hissed. "Or I'll choose for you."
---
Battle was the wrong word.
There were no weapons, only confessions.
The Prime Variant attacked with truths Plato never spoke: every selfish moment, every betrayal of instinct, every time he wished others would fail so he could be seen.
Plato stood still, bleeding without blood.
Lira stepped forward, deflecting verbal scars with her memory-blade.
"You're a liar," the Variant snarled.
"No," Plato whispered.
"I'm a coward. And that's different."
The throne pulsed.
Behind them, the Third raised his hands. The cube ignited.
The city above began to descend.
Not the buildings.
The concept of the city.
Its laws. Its forgotten promises. Its voided oaths.
They gathered around the throne.
The Variant screamed.
"You think memory makes you real?! You think scars make you noble?!"
The throne opened.
Plato looked at it.
Then stepped aside.
"I don't want to be the only truth," he said.
And the throne closed again.
The Variant vanished.
The cube shattered.
The world screamed.
---
They awoke.
On a rooftop.
Rain falling.
Neon lights in the distance.
The city. Real. Tangible.
Their city.
Lira looked at the skyline.
Plato stood. "Did we win?"
The Third smiled.
"We didn't win."
He held out his hand.
"We resynced."