NOVEL NEXT Chapter 9: A Hole Where She Should Be
They had driven in circles, aimless through the long-abandoned mining town, the truck rattling over cracked roads and by empty storefronts. Everything around them was hollow: empty windows, sagging roofs, rusted scaffolding. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy. It felt like they had been driving for hours. Maybe they had. Time blurred when the world no longer made sense.
Neither Fen nor Seraph spoke. They didn't need to. The air between them was already thick with everything they didn't say.
They both knew they couldn't help Auri. Not now. Not like this. But the truth of it sat between them like a weight neither of them wanted to pick up. So they kept moving, as if motion alone could stave off the helplessness clawing at their edges.
They watched the rift grow as they drove, it's dark wound slicing deeper into the horizon. Seraph kept one eye on the road, the other on the sky, searching for something—some sign that Auri was still fighting, some pattern in the madness that might offer them a way back in. Fen scanned the edges of buildings, rooftops, alleys, as if expecting a door to open or a plan to appear out of sheer will. But there was nothing. Just the distortion of the growing rift spreading wider, warping the town with every passing minute.
They drove in wider and wider arcs, looping past collapsed scaffolding and rust-stained walls, trying to find a new angle, a new possibility—but each route ended the same way: a slow return to where they started. The same fractured windows. The same scorched road. The same ache.
And still, neither said the words aloud. That it was too late. That she was already gone.
The silence inside the cab was thick, heavy with everything they weren't ready to admit. The further they drove, the more it settled in—not a decision, but a surrender they didn't want to name.
But the rift wasn't waiting.
It continued to grow—slow, inexorable—its jagged tear spreading across the horizon like a wound that refused to close. The sky bent wrong around it, light warping in ways the Synth shouldn't allow. The town itself groaned in protest, steel frames creaking as if the code that held the simulation together was starting to unravel.
They'd never seen anything like it.
Some endings don't leave space for heroics, only escape.
Fen didn't want to admit it, not even to himself—but the rift was growing too fast, warping the sky, the town, maybe even the rules of the Synth itself. Every instinct told him to stay, to fight, to find some way—any way—to help. But instincts didn't matter when there was nothing left to throw at the problem but grief.
Seraph didn't ask. She didn't speak. She just turned the wheel with quiet finality, guiding the truck onto the main road. The gravplates hummed over loose gravel, spitting dust behind them as they began to pull away.
Fen kept watching the rift in the mirror, its jagged mouth stretching wider across the skyline. Light bent wrong around it, like it was swallowing the world one breath at a time.
He didn't want to look away.
But then he felt it—Seraph's hand, steady and strong, reaching across the cab to squeeze his. He turned to her. Met her eyes.
And in that one silent look, he let go.
Not of Auri. Never of her.
But of the idea that they could still fix it.
He nodded, just once. Small. Final.
They drove on, the road ahead dusted in fading light, and the rift slowly disappeared behind them—swallowed by distance, and by the unbearable weight of knowing they'd left something sacred behind.
A few minutes into the drive, their HUDs flickered to life. Cold. Mechanical.
SYSTEM UPDATE — NPC DIRECTIVE OVERRIDE
Priority Task:
Evacuate active simulation zone.
Directive:
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Locate and escort all players to the nearest extraction point (spaceport).
The text scrolled across the HUD in a flat, bureaucratic font—dry as dust, devoid of life. It blinked again casting a pale, sterile glow through the truck's cab, painting everything in cold light.
Fen didn't even glance at it.
There was no flourish this time. No sarcasm, no cryptic phrasing. None of the wry little tweaks he'd always suspected Auri had slipped into system updates when no one was looking. Just protocol. Empty and automatic.
And that, more than anything else, told him she was gone.
His mind flashing back to Auri—flickering, fading.
"Figures," Fen muttered, bitter and low, like the words might burn if left unsaid. Of course the system chose now—of all times—to shove a directive in his face. Not five minutes after they left her behind. Not even long enough for the grief to settle. No pause. No grace. Just cold instructions flashing across the dash like none of it mattered. Like she hadn't mattered. Like the universe was too goddamn efficient to waste a second on mourning.
He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. He had wished for this. Back when every day felt like a copy-paste nightmare, he had begged for the cycle to break. For something, anything, to tear through the monotony and finally mean something. And now it had. The cycle had broken, the world had changed—but not the way he had hoped. Not in a way that made sense. Not at the cost of Auri. The price was too high, and the silence she left behind was louder than anything that had come before.
His fists curled, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to rage, to tear the HUD out of his code and scream until the system cracked—but his chest was too hollow for anything but silence.
The truck rumbled forward, slow and steady. Seraph kept her eyes on the dark road ahead. She didn't speak, didn't pry. Just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting quietly on his hand—close, but not pushing.
The message reappeared.
SYSTEM UPDATE — NPC PROTOCOL OVERRIDE
Evacuation Directive:
All personnel must escort active players to the designated sector exit point (spaceport).
Warning: Logout functionality has been disabled due to sector instability.
Respawn systems offline.
Do not allow logout attempts. Risk of data corruption and fatal neural feedback is high.
Immediate relocation to a stable sector is required.
This time, it didn't just blink once. It pulsed. A red border flared around the text, urgent and cold, forcing itself into his awareness like a slap across the face.
Fen slammed his hand against the dash, the crack of impact sharp in the enclosed cab.
"Servers take it, not now!" he shouted, voice raw and shaking. "I can't—I can't just pretend it didn't happen!"
The glow from the HUD lit Seraph's face in faint red, but she didn't turn to look at him. She just gripped the wheel tighter.
"I know," she said, quietly. Steady. "I know, Fen."
Fen's breath caught. The fury that had been burning under his skin faltered, flickered. He held her gaze, and for the first time since the refinery, the storm inside him eased—not from peace, but from sheer exhaustion.
He slumped back in the seat, voice hoarse. "I just… I can't shake the feeling we left her. Like we abandoned her."
Seraph didn't look at him right away. Her eyes stayed forward, tracing the horizon line where the mountains met the darkening sky. The wind outside howled like it was mourning with them.
"I feel it too," she said at last. "Every second. Like there's a hole where she should be. But we didn't leave her, Fen. We listened to her."
He turned toward her, brow furrowed.
"She knew what was coming," Seraph continued, voice steadier now. "She saw something in that thing—something we couldn't fight. She boxed it in, stalled it, and then she made a call. A call none of us wanted. But it was hers. And we respected it."
He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it tight. "But if we'd stayed—if we'd tried—"
"She would've had to protect us too," Seraph cut in gently. "And she knew we wouldn't just stand back and let her fight alone. She knew we'd throw ourselves into the fire trying to save her. That's who we are. And that's why she didn't let us."
Fen's jaw tensed, but he didn't argue.
"She was part of the system in a way we'll never fully understand," Seraph said. "She knew this place better than either of us. She knew the aftermath would need people like you. Like us. That's why she sent us away—not to run, but to fight a different battle. One she couldn't."
The truck bounced slightly over uneven ground, the rift now looming larger in the mirrors, a spreading wound across the sky. Fen watched it swell behind them, eyes hollow but locked.
"If there was anything we could've done," Seraph added, "she knows we would've. And probably died trying."
He exhaled, the sound more a tremor than a breath. His hand found the edge of the window, tapping rhythmically against the frame—something to do, something to ground him.
"We didn't abandon her," she said again, softer now. "We honored her choice."
He nodded slowly, once. Then again.
The silence stretched. But this time, it didn't smother them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but firm. "We finish this. Help who we can. Do what we have to."
Seraph glanced over, just briefly. "And then?"
His stare returned to the road ahead, jaw set.
"Then we go back. And we find her."
"We'll come back for her," Seraph said, quiet but certain, more a vow than a reassurance.
Fen didn't answer. He just met her eyes, and for a moment, that was enough. A silent promise passed between them—when this was over, they'd go back. They'd find a way to honor her. To save her, if they still could. They would not let this be the end.