Kassandra’s screams tore raw from her throat, fists pounding the unyielding door until her knuckles split. “Open, damn you—!” she rasped, nails clawing grooves into the metal. Inside, Ichabode and Akasha crashed into each other, limbs tangled like discarded puppets as the room convulsed. Ichabode’s glasses shattered, shards grazing his cheek, while Akasha’s fingers dug into his forearm—anchoring herself, terrified. The secret room spun wildly, a vibrant menagerie of impossible colours swirling into a maelstrom that clawed at their guts. This isn’t physics, Ichabode thought wildly, it’s madness, like a kaleidoscope caught in The Twilight Zone. Their journey through this wormhole defied any and all comprehension, a chaotic ballet choreographed to universe’s silent symphony.
Meanwhile, Zaza, poised to navigate her Zazatar into the future, 2044 to be exact, to discover the source of the dark, shadowy power that remained looming, caught a glimpse of flickering light out of the corner of her eye. Zaza paused for a moment, looking over in the direction of the flickering light. “That’s odd!” she murmured aloud. Zaza couldn’t recall the last time that light had flickered; it had been years, perhaps decades. She placed her Zazatar on standby, to investigate further. Above the erratic light was a small holographic display it’s message sent shivers up her spine. On the display, the message was direct. “Zaza, Oracle of the Mystical Conglomerates, you’ve been summoned to Posteriori Prime. An anomaly has been detected in the HERB (Hyper-Einstein-Rosen Bridge).” Zaza’s mind raced. What could this mean? Without hesitation, she reconfigured her Zazatar’s coordinates for Posteriori Prime. Her virtual 
form (the Zazatar) materialized in the Liminal Nexus, a chamber designed and dedicated for all HERB or virtual transitions. Though the room’s resonant 432hz energy soothed her frayed nerves, the tranquility shattered as a crisp computerized voice announced, “Incoming arrival via HERB.” Even as the Liminal Nexus’s calming aura enveloped her, Zaza glimpsed her reflection in its liquid-like mirrored walls. Despite her composure, concern lingered unmistakably in her eyes.
The HERB hissed softly, releasing Ichabode and Akasha onto solid ground. The moment his feet touched the floor, a jolt of recognition shot through him. His breath caught in his throat. The room, a dizzying display of lights which were being continually redirected off of the liquid-mirrored walls, left both Ichabode and Akasha disoriented as they were still discombobulated and reeling from the unexpected journey.
Before him stood the Zazatar, waiting—watching. A memory flooded Ichabode’s mind. Six years old, clutching a ticket stub, staring up at a woman in a sequined leotard who pulled coins from his ear. Her laugh had been honey and smoke. “Magic’s just pain you forget to count, kid.” The carnival, he thought. A dazzling spectacle of lights and illusions, and… a woman…this woman. Now, her face — Zaza’s face — stared back, yet there was something about her face that seemed peculiar. There, and not there, simultaneously. Akasha gripped Ichabode’s arm, her nails biting flesh. A wisp of air parted her lips. “Where … are … we?” she managed, her voice frayed. Ichabode couldn’t—didn’t—answer, his stomach knotting. Time and space had bent incomprehensibly, leading him back to a face he had long buried in the past. A face that now watched him with a knowing smile, as though it had waited centuries for this moment. Ichabode’s thoughts flashing before his eyes, now mixed in with all the lights of the room, had produced a single realization; this surreal dreamlike sequence had brought him full circle, back to a face from his past, a face that stirred up emotions long buried.
