There was a noticeable delay stepping out of the kiosk—just like when we’d traveled from the 49th floor to the 75th. In my mind, that confirmed my theory that the Research floors were their own isolated spatial zones, somehow cut off from the rest of the Backrooms in a way I didn’t fully understand. The mechanics didn’t matter, though. Not right now. What mattered was that I’d be on my own for the next few minutes until the others could catch up.

  The doorway I’d crawled through didn’t turn out to be a doorway at all.

  Instead, I scrambled out on my hands and knees, covered in a thick layer of ash, emerging from the mouth of a fireplace. Like the 49th floor, I was inside a small house—though this one was miles better than the filthy log shack that Pinewhisker, self-proclaimed “Yulelord of Trees,” called home.

  The walls curved upward in warm, honey-colored arcs, the grain of the wood telling me instantly that this entire place had been carved right into the trunk of a hollowed-out tree. And, given the diameter of the room, this was a truly huge fucking tree.

  The space was neat and cozy—almost aggressively quaint.

  Woven rugs stretched across polished wood floors, and shelves were crammed with mismatched teacups and well-worn children’s books. A small table was set for tea, like the host was expecting company at any minute. A pot of something sweet-smelling simmered on a tiny woodstove beside a basic kitchenette—just a sink and a couple of cupboards, though a large glazed jar labeled “Hunny” sat prominently on the counter.

  A miniature bed, even smaller than the one I’d found in Pinewhisker’s hut, sat against one wall, a cozy flower quilt pulled over the top with a pile of pillows stacked at the headboard. The walls were covered in paintings, the kind made with plenty of love but absolutely zero talent. They looked like the kind of paintings a kid might make, which sent off alarm bells in my head and instantly reminded me of the Tiny Tots Preschool back in Eternal Suburbia.

  Overall, though, the place was… nice. Disarmingly so.

  Which was a perfect reminder that I shouldn’t trust it.

  The one guiding axiom in the Backrooms, which had never led me astray, was to assume that everything, everywhere, all the time is both lying to you and trying to murder you. I scanned the room for traps, and though I didn’t find any, that didn’t mean anything. For all I knew, half the crap in this cutesy little house were mimics just biding their time, waiting for a chance to take a chunk out of my spleen.

  The thought fled as I heard raised voices outside, though they were muffled by the thick walls.

  I crept toward the front of the house, moving as quietly as I could across the floorboards, until I reached the stout wooden door. A peephole was set into the bottom half, so low I had to crouch to see through it. I took a deep breath and pressed my eye against it, which offered me a distorted, fish-eyed view of the floor behind.

  The house was situated in a clearing, hemmed in by towering oaks and massive redwoods, their trunks so thick it would take a dozen people to wrap their arms around them. The canopy overhead was knitted together so tightly it turned the sunlight into a green, murky haze that spilled onto the forest floor. The only thing truly out of place was a slate gray Progenitor Monolith.

  An ATM in the middle of an old-growth forest should’ve raised a few eyebrows, but it wasn’t even close to the weirdest thing I’d seen today.

  This close to the door, I could hear the distant singsong chirp of birds and the chattering of squirrels, though every sound—the rustling of leaves, the creaking of bark—felt muted, swallowed by the forest.

  Eight figures stood in a loose semicircle in the center of the clearing, all of them Delvers, all of them radiating the kind of predatory stillness that meant they were waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

  Some wore mismatched armor—bits of steel plate strapped over leather—others were decked out in riot gear covered in spikes, and one wore a latex suit that clung to every curve and left very little to the imagination. The sheer amount of mooseknuckle on high-def display was truly disturbing.

  There was a hulking bear of a man clad head to toe in plate mail that looked like it had been stolen off some paladin’s corpse. At least two weren’t human at all—one was a broad-shouldered Cendral whose scaled forearms flexed like coiled snakes, while the other was a bullheaded man with curling black horns and hooves that dug small furrows in the dirt as he shifted his weight.

  And then there was her.

  Tall, willowy, and unnervingly beautiful, she could’ve stepped right out of a Tolkien casting call—assuming you ignored the fact that the skin on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose had been stripped away. Raw muscle and pale sinew gleamed wetly where smooth flesh should’ve been.

  In fact, that was the one thing they all had in common.

  Every single one of them was missing patches of skin. Arms, hands, faces—all neatly flayed like someone had been peeling fruit.

  Aspirants of the Skinless Court.

  I scanned them through the peephole, and Delver tags flashed above their heads. All were in the mid-forties—easily putting them on par with the other members of my group—though the willowy woman with the jacked-up face job was level 52. I was slightly higher level, but knew I was punching well above my respective weight class thanks to the mix of Relics I had stashed away inside my core.

  Still, eight-on-one were bad odds, and even with my Horrors I wasn’t sure I would be a match.

  I didn’t want to alert them to my presence, but I decided to risk a Spatial Core scan on the woman, hoping to get some idea of what I was up against.

  Delver #04T - 01 - B07HGCNFLL – Celestari, Transmog [Level 52]

  If grace could kill, the Celestari would be responsible for half the unsolved murders in the galaxy. Fine-boned features, flawless skin, and eyes that look like they’ve been painted by a moody Renaissance master, these pointy-eared prodigies practically ooze superiority. They’ve got the kind of fine, symmetrical features that look like they were designed in a lab for maximum cruelty, and the Celestari aim to deliver.

  And they do. In spades.

  Among their own kind, cruelty is an art form. Among outsiders, it’s a sport.

  Some arrogance is warranted, however.

  Celestari are, without exaggeration, among the best magic-users in existence. Their spellcraft isn’t just effective—it’s surgical, precise, and always accompanied by the faint suspicion that they’re holding back just to show they can. Dexterity comes just as naturally to them, whether it’s swordplay, acrobatics, archery, or twirling a wineglass in a way that somehow makes you feel poor. Add in lifespans that make other galactic species look like mayflies, and you’ve got a recipe for generations of meticulously cultivated arrogance.

  On the downside, the Celestari don’t rush. About anything. Technologically, they’re stuck in a permanent golden age of their own making, endlessly refining designs from eras past rather than chasing the next big breakthrough. Where other species innovate, the Celestari curate. They’ll tell you it’s because they’ve achieved perfection. The truth is, they’re comfortable in their slow, glittering rut, and heaven help the moron who tries to drag them out of it.

  That was helpful, but I wanted more. Needed more. So, I used the Researcher’s Codex to dig deeper.

  Ashely Greene

  Specimen Biotag ID #04T - 01 - B07HGCNFLL

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  Variant Assimilation Level: 52

  Race: Celestari, Transmog

  __ __ __

  Health: 123

  Stamina Reserve: 87

  Mana Pool: 293

  __ __ __

  Spatial Core - Active

  (U) Kitchen Shears – Level 10

  (C) Glass Veil – Level 8

  (U) Perfumed Silence – Level 5

  (U) Spun Sugar Cathedral – Level 6

  (R) Opera of Ruin– Level 10

  (R) Funeral Procession – Level 7

  (R) Needlepoint Compass – Level 5

  (F) Parasite’s Shortcut – Level 10

  (F) Flayer’s Kiss – Level 15

  (F) White Glove Vivisection – Level 15

  Affiliations of Record

  Aspirant, Skinless Court – Outer Disciple, Franchisee of the Kiosk Network

  The scan could only show me so much, but based on her stats and listed Relics, two things were immediately clear. One, she and I had remarkably similar builds—clearly focused on spell slinging and offensive power—and two, she was dangerous. In a straight up fight, I was sure I could take her, especially with my Horrors as backup, but against all eight I doubted I’d stand a chance.

  I saw the woman stiffen momentarily as I scanned her, the hairs on the back of my neck standing rigid as I held my breath—just waiting to be discovered. But then the moment passed, and she shook her head, refocusing on something I hadn’t noticed before.

  Held captive in a cage suspended from a thick tree bough was a large teddy bear, maybe three feet tall if the bear had been standing.

  But this wasn’t just a teddy bear. It was the teddy bear.

  An honest-to-God replica of the old version of Winnie-the-Pooh in all his honey-loving glory.

  A tag appeared above his adorable stuffed head.

  Dweller 0.990949B – Winnie-the-Pooh (Tea Shop Manager) [Level 49]

  The bear was worn and ragged, his fur the faded gold of a sun-bleached photograph, patchy in places where the seams had split and been stitched back together with mismatched thread. His limbs were thin and a little floppy, as though he’d been hugged past the point of structural integrity, and yet, for all that, there was something stubbornly wholesome about him. The bear had the kind of battered charm that made me believe he’d seen worse and survived it.

  Though I wasn’t sure he’d be able to endure what the Aspirants had in store for him.

  One leg had been torn off entirely, trailing a mixture of stained red fluff and grisly strings of meat. The contrast between the soft, squishy exterior and the puddle of blood was jarring and disgusting in a way I couldn’t put words to. The detached limb lay in the dirt below, half-covered in leaves. He was missing an eye—a gory hole where it should’ve been—while his remaining one was a dull black marble clouded with pain. A deep slash across his belly had spilled bits of fluff and ropes of gray intestine.

  It was hard to square what I was seeing. The bear looked for all the world like a stuffed animal, but clearly it was a living, breathing creature. A monstrosity spawned by the Progenitor Engine below, even if a loveable looking one.

  “I’m sure that I haven’t seen whoever you’re looking for,” Pooh said, his voice somehow gentle, though it wavered with exhaustion and resignation. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You’re here to hurt Christopher Robin, and I won’t let you. Not even if you kill me.”

  The willowy woman tilted her head, her mouth curling in something that wasn’t a smile. “How many times do we have to tell you, dolt? We’re not here for Christopher Robin. We’re here for a man named Dan. He wears a red bathrobe and a paper crown.”

  Pooh’s one good eye blinked slowly, stubborn and defiant. “Oh, drat…” The bear hesitated for a long second. “Even if that’s true,” Pooh said in his thick, slow cadence. “Well, I’m not going to help you anyway. You’re bad people. Mean people. And I don’t help mean people.” The bear paused and canted its head to the side in evident confusion. He looked lost. “Hello there, have you seen Christopher Robin? He’s my boy and he’s missing. I’ve been looking for him for so long.”

  “Clearly this creature doesn’t know anything,” the big man in plate mail growled. “There’s something wrong with it. Something broken in his head.”

  “Pity,” the woman said, her gaze hardening. “But maybe that means he’ll remember something pertinent if we apply a little more… pressure.” She drew a gleaming filleting knife from her belt and strolled toward the cage, her movements lazy, almost indulgent. “And if not? Well, at least we can have a little fun while we wait.”

  With her free hand, she grabbed hold of Pooh’s remaining leg.

  “Perhaps I cannot flay you,” she said softly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.”

  She began to cut. Slowly.

  Pooh let out a raw, mournful howl—ragged and trembling yet filled with such real pain that I felt it lance straight through me.

  The smart move would’ve been to stay hidden. To let the Aspirants finish their sadistic game while I waited for backup.

  But… it was Winnie-the-fucking-Pooh.

  They were literally torturing one of the most beloved cartoon characters of all time—a figure I’d grown up with as a kid. Hell, my mom had bought me a Winnie-the-Pooh bear for Christmas when I was eight. For three years, I’d refused to sleep without it, and I’d set a place for the bear at dinner every night until I was eleven.

  I couldn’t just stand there and watch an innocent creature suffer like that—not even if it was a Progenerated Dweller. Sure, he might not’ve been real in the same way Temp, Harper, or Jakob were, but he was no different than Croc, and the pain I heard in his soft voice was all too real. He needed help and I could offer it, even if it was the dumbest tactical decision in the playbook.

  There was no way I could beat all those sadistic dickheads on my own, but with just a little planning, I thought I could probably hold them off long enough for the others to arrive.

  I already had both Collective Consciousness and Sleepwalker equipped, thanks to my scuffle with the Sentinel, but there was one other Relic I’d need for my plan to work. I hastily swapped out StainSlayer Maelstrom for another Relic that I pulled from Spatial Storage, Mutable Persona.

  It was an Uncommon-grade illusion spell that many of the Sunnysiders carried, though there hadn’t been any reason to use it until now, since it offered no combat capabilities and limited tactical value. The only thing it did was allow the user to alter their physical appearance in some rather astounding ways. It was the same Relic Ed used to disguise the disfiguration he’d suffered as a result of spending so long on the spore-corrupted 24th floor.

  But a little illusion magic was exactly what I needed right now.

  Working quickly, I summoned several Dopplebangers, then dropped into a crouch behind them—using them as temporary meat shields for my real body—before summoning a Sunnysider Kevin and slipping seamlessly into the Horror’s body using Collective Consciousness. The world lurched as I abruptly found myself inside the hulking monstrosity. Then, with a muttered prayer, I cast Mutable Persona, altering the Horror until it looked like the real me.

  I glanced at myself in the glassy frame of a picture, confirming that the changes were close enough to fool the casual onlooker, then tromped forward and pushed open the door.

  The woman was still slicing bits and pieces off Pooh bear, but that all stopped the second I stepped into the clearing, pulling the door shut behind me with a rasp of wood against wood—concealing the Dopplebangers and my real body.

  “Stop,” I said. My voice was steady, even though my pulse was a war drum in my ears. “Heard you were looking for me. Well, here I am, dickweed.”

  The woman lowered the flaying knife and turned to face me, her lips curling into something approximating a smile, though with half the skin on her face missing it was hard to tell.

  “And you said torturing this poor creature wouldn’t accomplish anything, Skylar,” she said, her comment directed at the plate-mail-clad warrior to her right. She turned cold, calculating eyes on me. Judging, weighing, analyzing me. From the look plastered across her face, she didn’t seem impressed by what she saw.

  “Well, well,” she said, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. “And here I was thinking you’d keep skittering in the shadows like the little pest you are. Yet you walk right into our circle, unarmed and alone.” She tapped her chin with a finger. “Curious. I assumed you would be smarter than that, considering how much trouble you’ve caused.”

  “Yeah, people keep telling me I’m not great with subtlety,” I replied, folding my arms. “Seems like they might be right.”

  The woman took a slow step toward me, twirling the knife like it was part of some idle game. “You’ve become quite the troublesome buzzing fly, Discount Dan. The Monarch speaks of you often. With… irritation. That’s not an easy thing to achieve, you know. Irritating him, I mean. Most people only get his attention once.”

  “Guess I’m just a special snowflake,” I replied. “Real gift for it. Some folks can juggle, others can play piano by ear—me, I make homicidal megalomaniacs grind their teeth at night.”

  Her ruined lips twitched. “I imagine the Monarch will want you alive. A chance to study you. To peel back the layers.”

  “We shouldn’t play with him, Ashely,” the big man in the plate mail said. “If he’s made it this far, you know how dangerous he must be. Best if we just kill him and be done with it.”

  I kept my expression neutral, even as my borrowed Sunnysider heart thumped. “One small hitch in your plan,” I said. “You actually have to kill me first. And no one’s managed to do that yet. Plenty have tried, but none have succeeded. You’re all welcome to join the list, though.”

  Skylar snorted and rolled his eyes. “Cocky.”

  “Confident,” I corrected. “Cocky is thinking this is a fair fight that you can win. Confident is knowing I’m going your turn all of you into corpses.”

  That got a few feral growls, which was fine by me—keep them angry, keep them off-balance. The longer they stood here puffing up their chests and flapping their lips, the more time I bought for the rest of my team to arrive.

  The woman’s smile vanished like someone had pulled a curtain across her face. “Enough of this. Take him alive if you can—the Monarch will want to play with his new toy. And if you can’t…” She shrugged delicately. “Well. Mistakes happen. His corpse will suffice in a pinch.”

  Eight sets of eyes locked on me, their owners moving in with the kind of predatory ease that said they’d done this before.

  I glanced at Pooh in the cage. He met my eyes with that one cloudy marble and whispered, “Run.”

  Not today, Pooh bear. Not today…

  “Alright,” I muttered under my breath, flexing my mismatched Sunnysider fingers as Mana began to pool in my core. “Let’s make some bad decisions.”