Round 160 Transcript

At dark corridor in New York high rise penthouse suite, the pressure shifts from waiting to immediate risk. The ward answers the party's presence with a fresh pulse through the stone and no one can mistake it for safety. The nearest sign of danger is now structural collapse imminent. Someone has to answer that change now.

Halie's burned hands slip on the lubricant-slick floor as she braces the mirror against the door. She can feel the wardstone pulsing behind it—stronger now, more insistent. 'Jeane,' she calls out, voice steady despite her own fear, 'how long do you think we have?' The strain in Jeane's body is visible even through the darkness, the way her shoulders hunch with effort. Halie shifts her weight to shield Hera completely from whatever is pushing against that door, but the angle is awkward and her grip weakens by the second. She needs both hands free for real magic, not this desperate bracing act, but letting go means abandoning this makeshift barricade and she's damned if they all get pulled through to whatever hell awaits on the other side.

The wardstone pulses behind the door like some grotesque heart, each beat stronger than the last, and I know we're seconds away from this entire floor collapsing onto us—and whatever's inside those rooms getting out. Jeane is barely keeping it together with magic, sweat beading on her forehead, her hands shaking. The strain shows in every line of her body—her breasts are swollen beneath her shirt, the fabric tight across them. I see a damp patch forming there, dark against the white cloth. Demon milk, no doubt. "We need another way out," I say, voice sharp. "Now." Because if we don't move fast, the building is going to bury us all—and whatever that wardstone protects will have free reign over our corpses. Jeane meets my eyes, her own wide with fear and something else—frustration? Rage? The demonic influence twisting her thoughts? "How long can you hold it?" I ask, already knowing the answer. Her jaw tightens, a flicker of desperation in her expression. "I don't know," she admits. "Minutes at most."

Minutes. That's all we have before this place comes down around our ears—and we're trapped with a waking wardstone and whatever horror it guards. I glance at Halie, then Hera huddled against the wall—all of us trapped in this wet, dark corridor, the air thick with the scent of water, fear, and... arousal? I can smell it too now, that musky undercurrent beneath the panic. Great. Not only are we going to die, but our bodies are betraying us one last time. Jeane's eyes meet mine again, a silent plea in them. She needs me—needs someone to ground her, to keep her from giving in to the demon's whispers. I can see it in the way her fingers twitch, in the set of her jaw. I move closer, my hand finding her arm. "We'll figure this out," I say, even though part of me wants to scream at the absurdity of it all. Here we are, seconds from death, and I'm still trying to save Jeane from herself—and maybe that's what love is: stupid and inconvenient. But then again, if we're going to die in a pile of rubble anyway, maybe one last time wouldn't be the worst way to go out. At least it'd be on my terms—with her, even if it means facing whatever hell awaits us beyond that door.