The world holds its breath with me.
The word above us—**CHOOSE**—beats like a second heart, each pulse a demand inside my skull.
The not-thing at the end of the corridor leans closer. It has no face, no eyes, no edges—just absence in the rough outline of a person. But I feel its attention the way I feel the edge of a blade: thin, cold, precise.
My knees threaten to buckle.
Behind me, the girl's grip is a clamp on my wrist. I can feel her shaking, as if something is trying to rip her away through our joined hands. The word above her shadow—**BOUND**—is stretched thin, the letters pulled taut, almost snapping.
"Mark!" Her voice comes from far away. "Don't listen! Don't—"
My own voice interrupts her.
Or rather, the thing wearing it.
"Who owns you, Mark?" it whispers again. "Who do you belong to? Say it. Seal it."
Another word begins to form beneath **FIRST** and **MINE**, faint and flickering:
**OURS?**
Multiple presences. Multiple bids.
The corridor feels crowded without any bodies in it.
Ardan's fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
"Do not answer," he says, low and fierce. "This is not a question, it's a trap. Silence is safer than the wrong word."
But I remember the Witness, white-haired in the grey world.
Remember the way she said, *You get one answer. Ask the right question.*
And then later: *Don't trust the next voice. Don't answer it.*
My lungs burn. My heartbeat stutters.
The pressure of **CHOOSE** is unbearable.
If I stay silent, I feel like I'll burst. If I speak, I feel like I'll vanish.
The thing in the corridor tilts its head, as if studying an interesting insect.
"Indecision is still a choice," it says in my not-quite voice. "If you refuse to choose, they will choose for you. Many hands. Many mouths. You will be a feast."
The words above the smaller scavenger shadows—those trying to wedge themselves into the corridor from beneath the door we left—flare eagerly.
**FIRST**
**FIRST**
**FIRST**
They're waiting to see if the higher bidder fails.
If it does, there will be a frenzy.
"What does it want me to say?" I rasp.
"Anything that sets a direction," Ardan says. "A name, a side. Even 'yes' or 'no' can be interpreted."
"How is that fair?"
"It isn't," he snaps. "Contracts rarely are."
The third word over the corridor slowly stabilizes, the letters of **CHOOSE** now sharp, cruel lines. The pressure in the air tightens around my chest.
"I…" The sound slips out before I can stop it.
The thing leans forward eagerly.
The girl jerks my arm.
"Don't!" she cries. "Don't, don't, don't—"
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Think.
If I say *no*, that's an answer. If I say *yes*, that's worse. If I name something, I invite it in. If I stay silent, they might tear me apart anyway, a dozen mouths each taking a piece.
The Witness told me to pull my thread. To haul myself back toward what still belongs to me.
What belongs to me?
Not my body. That almost wasn't mine anymore. Not my life. I begged for that and something else touched it. Not my death. That, apparently, has been postponed.
But—
I feel the girl's grip, hotter now, burning. I feel the way her word **BOUND** keeps trying to twist into something else whenever I get too close to breaking.
We're tied.
My thread goes through her. Hers goes through mine.
If I choose to belong to something else…
Will it take her too?
My eyes snap open.
"No," I croak.
The air tightens.
The thing seems to smile without a face.
"Then you choose refusal?" it whispers. "You reject all bids? You reject all names?"
The word **CHOOSE** flares.
I feel every scavenger and watcher press closer from the edges of reality, listening.
My throat scratches.
I think of the word over my own shadow on the rooftop:
**UNCLAIMED.**
Not owned. Not free. Suspended.
Bad enough to make everyone want a piece.
The Witness had looked at me like I was something new. Or something dangerous. Or something wrong.
Maybe all of the above.
What if there's a third option?
No *yes*.
No *no*.
No choosing *them*.
I drag in a breath that tastes like cold metal and ash.
"I'm not property," I say.
The words scrape my throat raw on the way out.
The corridor goes dead silent.
Even the distant titter of the scavenger shadows quiets, their **FIRST** dimming as if someone threw a blanket over them.
The thing at the far end tilts its head.
Ardan freezes.
The girl's nails bite deep into my skin.
"You are already in the ledger," the not-thing says. "Your lines written. Your value set. You begged. You were answered. You are a debt. Debts are property."
"No," I whisper.
I can feel something inside me trembling—not from fear, but from effort. Like a muscle I've never used before straining under a stupid weight.
"I'm not property," I say again, louder. "You don't own me. None of you do."
The word **UNCLAIMED** burns in the back of my mind.
A gap. A glitch. A crack.
The thing's presence sharpens.
"Then what owns you?" it asks.
The words above the scavenger shadows quiver, hungry.
"Who owns you, Mark Levchenko?"
I meet the emptiness at the end of the corridor.
For the first time since waking in that hospital bed, I push back.
"No one," I say.
The world reacts.
The pressure in the air snaps like an overstretched wire.
Every word above every shadow in the corridor flares white-hot, then inverts to black, swallowed by the dark for an instant.
The thing at the far end flinches.
Just a little.
Just enough.
The letters **FIRST** and **MINE** glitch, distorting, their shapes warping as if someone smeared ink across them.
Behind me, the girl gasps, as if someone released a blade from her throat. Her word **BOUND** shrinks back to normal size, the painful strain easing.
Ardan lets out a breath that sounds like it's been waiting years.
"Oh," he says softly. "Oh, that's… very stupid. And possibly brilliant."
The not-thing's presence surges, raw and furious now. The corridor temperature drops so fast my breath frosts.
"You refuse the bid?" it says. "You refuse all ownership?"
I cling to the railing because my legs are shaking uncontrollably.
"Yes," I say. "I refuse."
The word **CHOOSE** over us shatters.
Its pieces scatter through the air like broken glass, then dissolve into static.
The not-thing reels back as if struck.
For a terrible second I think I've won.
Then the world reminds me who I'm dealing with.
A new word carves itself into existence above the empty shape at the end of the corridor.
Not **FIRST**.
Not **MINE**.
Something colder:
**NOTED.**
I feel it write itself somewhere just behind my heart, like ink sinking into paper.
No promise. No claim. Just acknowledgment.
"You have declared yourself outside the bid," the thing says. Its voice is no longer my voice, but something older, layered. "You refuse ownership. You reject the ledger. Interesting."
"Is… is that allowed?" I breathe.
"For now," it says. "There are always consequences for walking off the page."
The hallway groans. The pipes above us rattle, spraying a fine mist of cold water. Words flicker along the damp metal where the droplets land: **LISTENING**, **COUNTING**, **REMEMBER**.
"You will still be collected," the thing continues. "But not as product. As anomaly."
I don't like the way it says anomaly.
Ardan steps forward, enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
"That's enough for tonight," he says. There's steel in his voice now. "Clause invoked. Bid closed. Interim custody holds."
The not-thing's edges pulse.
"And you," it says, shifting its attention to him. "You interfere again, little accountant."
"I operate within the margins," Ardan replies. "You know the rules. He invoked refusal under *no-name precedent*. Your claim can't finalize while his status is in dispute."
The thing is silent for a heartbeat that doesn't belong to any living creature.
Then:
**NOTED** pulses once more.
And it is simply gone.
Not fading. Not dissolving.
Gone.
The words over the scavenger shadows wink out too. The faint skittering at the edge of reality withdraws like water retreating from shore.
The corridor is suddenly, brutally ordinary.
A long, fluorescent-lit service hall in a hospital. Dirty floor. Stained walls. A single flickering bulb.
I sag against the rail.
My legs don't feel like they belong to me.
The girl leans her forehead against my shoulder, breathing hard.
Ardan rolls his shoulders once, like someone trying to get rid of a weight he's been carrying for too long.
"Well," he says. "That was… suicidal. But effective."
"What just happened?" I manage. "Did I… did I win?"
He snorts. "No one wins against something that high. You delayed. You complicated. You made yourself less convenient to eat. That's all."
"That's all?" the girl squeaks. "He just told a higher bidder 'no one owns me' in the middle of an open auction and you call that *that's all*?"
"Yes," Ardan says calmly. "Anything more would require paperwork."
He reaches up and presses two fingers lightly to the side of my neck.
A warmth spreads from the point of contact, chasing back some of the numbness.
"Pulse stabilizing," he mutters. "You're not dead. Yet. Good."
"Yet?" I repeat weakly.
He ignores that.
"We need to move," he says. "The hospital is compromised. Your status is echoing through every level of this place now. Too many ears."
"Where do we go?" the girl asks.
"Somewhere messy," he says. "Somewhere loud. Somewhere full of people who don't know what they're wearing above their shadows."
That sounds reassuring and terrifying at the same time.
We move.
This time, there are no words chasing us down the corridor—only the normal ones, the small ones: **TIRED** over a janitor's shadow as he mops, **WORRIED** over a relative slumped on a chair, staring at his phone.
My head throbs. I do my best to blur my vision, to not read everything.
We blend into the night shift.
To them, we're just another patient being discharged early, a tired doctor in a suit, a girl in an oversized hoodie who looks like a stressed-out friend. Ardan flashes something that might be an ID; no one looks too closely.
The automatic doors sigh open.
Cold outside air hits my face like a bucket of water.
The city is louder than the rooftop. Cars. Voices. Neon signs buzzing. Somewhere a dog barks. Somewhere music leaks from a window.
And, of course, everywhere shadows.
Under streetlamps. Under cars. Under people crossing the parking lot.
Above them: words.
So many words.
I flinch.
"Don't drink the ocean," Ardan reminds me. "Skim."
We move fast across the parking lot, my hospital gown hidden under a stolen coat. The girl never lets go of my wrist.
"What now?" I ask. "We just… walk?"
"Taxi," Ardan says. "We need density. Noise. Signal clutter."
A car pulls up before we can even raise a hand.
It's not a taxi. Just an old, dented sedan. The driver leans out, cigarette between two fingers.
"You need a ride?" he asks.
His shadow on the pavement is long and thin from the lamp behind him.
The word above it glows:
**LOOKING.**
I glance at Ardan, tense.
He considers the driver for a second, then nods.
"Yes," he says simply.
We pile into the back seat. The girl presses herself against the door; I slump in the middle, every muscle shaking with exhaustion.
"Where to?" the driver asks.
Ardan rattles off an address I don't recognize.
"Right," the driver says. "Long way at this hour, but I'll get you there."
We pull out of the parking lot.
The hospital shrinks in the rearview mirror.
So does the word that had briefly hovered above its sprawling shadow as we stepped out:
**STAINED.**
The city at night slides by. Glowing signs. High-rises with scattered lit windows. A group of teenagers laughing too loudly at a bus stop. Their shadows wear words like **RESTLESS**, **LOUD**, **HIDING**.
"What did I do back there?" I ask quietly. "Exactly."
"You invoked a refusal clause most mortals don't know exists," Ardan says. "You declared yourself 'no one's property' while already on a ledger. That creates… conflict."
"Conflict is good?" the girl asks.
"Conflict is messy," he answers. "Messy is survivable if you have someone to manage the books."
"And if you don't?" I ask.
"Then you get torn into percentages."
I decide I don't want to know what that looks like.
We ride in silence for a while.
I watch the driver's eyes in the mirror.
He hums a tune under his breath, some old song. The word above his shadow changes as we drive, shifting from **LOOKING** to **DECIDING** to **HOPEFUL** whenever he glances at a text that lights up his phone at a stoplight.
"He can change his word?" I murmur.
"Everyone's shifts," the girl says. "Small ones. Surface currents. It's the deep names that stay."
"And mine?" I look down at my feet, but the floor of the car is too dark to see my shadow clearly.
"Yours is… in flux," Ardan says. "UNCLAIMED is already a problem. After what you just did, I doubt it will stay that simple."
The car eventually slows.
We're in a busy district now. Late-night shops, a 24/7 supermarket, a bar with someone yelling at a football match on TV. The air is thick with overlapping sounds.
This is what Ardan meant by messy.
"Here," he says to the driver. "This is good."
We get out in front of the supermarket.
The driver glances back at us.
"For what it's worth," he says, "whatever you're dealing with… you look like you got out of something bad."
He hesitates.
"Be careful what you run into next, yeah?"
His shadow shifts.
For a heartbeat, the word above it flickers to:
**WARNED.**
Then he drives off.
We stand on the sidewalk under the harsh white light of the supermarket sign.
People come and go through the sliding doors. Night-shift workers. Students grabbing snacks. An old woman with a basket of bread.
So many shadows. So many small, ordinary words.
It almost feels safe.
"Inside," Ardan says. "Too many eyes out here."
We slip in with the flow of people.
The supermarket smells like detergent, cheap pastries, and fruit that's been on the shelf a day too long. Bright aisles. Tinny pop music buzzing overhead. Fluorescent lights reflecting off metal shelves.
Normal.
Or it would be, if I couldn't see the quiet captions floating above every shadow.
**HUNGRY**.
**LONELY**.
**ANNOYED**.
**BORROWED**.
**SOBER (FOR NOW)**.
The noise is almost enough to drown out the exhaustion in my bones.
Ardan steers us toward a small seating area near the coffee machines—a few plastic tables, mostly empty.
We sit.
For a moment, nobody says anything.
The girl stares at her hands.
I stare at mine.
They're shaking.
"I meant it, you know," I say eventually. My voice sounds thin in the buzzing light. "What I said. That I'm not property."
"I know," Ardan says.
He looks tired. More than tired. Used up.
"The problem," he adds, "is that the universe doesn't care what you *mean*. It cares what you *say* and what you *sign*—with ink, with blood, with breath. Intention is just seasoning."
"And what did I sign tonight?" I ask.
He considers.
"A delay," he says finally. "A dispute. And a promise you haven't realized you made yet."
My stomach drops. "What promise?"
"You said 'no one owns me,'" he says. "Which implies something."
"Like what?"
"That someone might," the girl says quietly. "Someday. If you decide it yourself instead of letting them do it."
I stare at her.
"Is that… possible?" I ask.
"A self-claimed name?" Ardan shrugs. "In theory."
"In practice?" the girl presses.
"In practice, everyone who's tried ended up mad, dead, or worse."
"Worse than dead?" I ask.
"They ended up useful," he says.
That doesn't explain anything.
But before I can ask more, the fluorescent light above our table flickers.
Just once.
Then again.
The noise of the supermarket keeps going—scanners beeping, coffee machines grinding, someone arguing softly with a cashier—but a thin thread of cold runs through the air.
The girl stiffens.
"Do you feel that?" she whispers.
"Stay still," Ardan says under his breath. "Don't make sudden decisions. Don't agree to anything. Don't say yes if someone asks if you want a receipt."
"That's oddly specific," I murmur.
"Experience," he mutters.
I swallow and, slowly, look down.
The bright overhead lights cast a clear shadow of me onto the cheap tile floor.
For the first time since the rooftop, I can see the word above it.
It's no longer **UNCLAIMED**.
The letters have twisted.
Rewritten.
A new word hangs there now, inked in stark, cold light.
**REJECTED.**