Round 176 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.

I cut off my channeling just long enough to snap at Silra before resuming, dildo already back in the wall socket charging with demonic energy. "Stop wasting time staring at cracks and find a way out—reinforce this door or locate another exit NOW. We have minutes, not hours of debate." My voice doesn't shake but my teeth are grinding. Hera's skin is already turning translucent like the woman from downstairs and I need to maintain authority before panic spreads worse than it already is. "Silra has enough skill to handle this if she stops thinking and starts doing. The wardstone's pulse just intensified—we're losing structural integrity."

Halie braces her burned hands against the mirror bracing the door, feeling the slick floor shift under her boots as more lubricant seeps across the tile. The wardstone pulses faster now—she can feel it through the soles of her feet, a sharp rhythm that makes her teeth ache. We need to get Hera away from this doorway, she says evenly. That corruption is spreading too fast. Her skin looks like alabaster going translucent, and I don't know how much longer we can shield her from it. She adjusts her stance, pressing her shoulder against the mirror to take more weight off her injured hands. The metal frame digs into her collarbone, but she ignores it—the wardstone's pulse is becoming painful now, each beat like a hammer striking behind her eyes. Jeane, if you're going to channel again, tell me first so I can brace this properly. She glances sideways at the sorceress, noting the tension in her jaw and the way Hera stands too close to the dark doorway beyond. We need more weight on this door before Silra tries to check the ceiling—if it gives, we lose our only barrier. Her palms are burning again, the burns reactivating from contact with the corrupt metal frame, but she doesn't let up her pressure. Someone needs to answer that change now, and right now, keeping Hera alive feels like the only thing worth doing even as the wardstone tries to pull them all down into its corruption. What's under the building? What's in that dark corridor? Those questions don't matter. What matters is this moment—this door—this woman who needs protecting despite the cost it's extracting from Halie's body and soul.

The wardstone pulses again, sharper this time. I can feel it through my boots—the rhythm of something old and angry waking up beneath us. Jeane's right about one thing: standing here doing nothing while the building tries to kill itself is a waste of good desperation. But her solution involves throwing me at a door that's already showing its hinges, and I'm not built for suicide missions. I crouch down anyway, pressing my palms flat against the floorboards. They're warm—too warm—and creaking like they're telling secrets under their breath. The space between the joists is clear enough; if we could brace them from above... "Jeane," I say without looking up, "if you want me to check what's down there, you're going to have to tell Hera to back off that doorway. One wrong move and she's through."