Chapter 15 – The Truth Room

The lights were low.

Artificial dusk filtered through the simulated window in Dorm-7, casting warm gold across the stark white room. It was peaceful. False. The kind of peace that only came after catastrophe – shallow, borrowed, and too quiet to trust.

Alyssa slept on the floor, curled on her side with one arm beneath her. The bed hadn’t survived her weight. Thin cracks spiderwebbed the tiles beneath her ribs.

Chloe lay in the bunk above, or at least part of her did. Her right arm had slipped through the wall mid-sleep, phasing in and out of sync like a badly tuned hologram. She didn’t snore. She barely breathed.

Victor sat in the corner, unmoving. Elbows on knees, eyes open, mind somewhere else. His shirt was still torn from the fight in the hospital. The bloodstains had dried brown.

Dan was in the bathroom again. Max could hear him – dry heaving into the sink, water running. Trying not to make a sound. Failing.

And Max… stood by the door.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even tried.

The Hellfire inside him had returned – not like a flame, but like a fever. It pulsed low in his chest and behind his eyes. Not searing pain. Not yet. But pressure.

He stared at his hand. The one he used to awaken them.

It shook.

Just a tremor at first. Barely visible. But it didn’t stop. He clenched it into a fist, then opened it again. Nothing helped. The fingers trembled like something beneath the skin was trying to escape.

He swallowed.

Five people.

Five souls awakened.

Liz. Dan. Victor. Alyssa. Chloe.

And each time… it got worse.

A faint scrape behind him.

Max didn’t turn, but he didn’t need to. He felt the presence before he saw it – familiar, quiet, kind in a way that made everything hurt worse.

Dan leaned against the doorframe, pale and sweaty, a damp towel around his neck. His hands were red from gripping the sink.

“You look like shit,” Dan said, voice low.

Max smirked faintly. “Mirror’s broken. Can’t confirm.”

Dan stepped forward, held out a bottle of water. Max took it, sipped. The tremble in his hand didn’t stop. Dan noticed but didn’t say anything.

They stood there for a moment. Just breathing.

“You ever wonder if this is what we were supposed to be?” Max asked, staring at the floor.

Dan followed his gaze. The tiles near Alyssa were cracked in a near-perfect circle. Chloe's aura had left faint frost along the bunk rails. Even asleep, they were changing the space around them.

“No,” Dan said.

Max raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be anything. We just are. And now we figure it out.”

Max stared at him.

“I’m serious,” Dan said. “I don’t think there’s some divine plan or fate script we’re reading from. You’re not a chosen one, Max. You’re just the one who kept going.”

Max looked away.

Dan hesitated. “But if this thing inside you… this fire… is eating you?”

Max didn’t answer.

Dan stepped closer, voice softening. “Then we figure it out. Together. Before it takes too much.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was… comforting. Real.

For the first time since stepping off that jet, Max felt the weight shift – just slightly. Not lifted. But shared.

He nodded once. Just once.

Dan gave a weak smile and moved to check on Chloe.

Max stayed where he was, staring at his hand again.

It still trembled.

But now, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

And maybe – just maybe – he wouldn’t have to fight it alone.

…………………

The training arena wasn’t made of steel or concrete.

It was made of obsidian.

A single colossal dome, smooth as glass, rose hundreds of feet above them – black crystal walls reflecting distorted copies of the group as they stepped inside. No scaffolding. No seams. Just one perfect, spherical cavern. Carved out of the earth by something that wasn’t human.

The floor was a composite mesh of black alloy and hexed stone, scuffed with past trauma – blade marks, scorch patterns, and impact craters that hadn’t been polished out. It smelled faintly of ozone and blood.

Above, in a glassed-over command booth high on the far side of the arena, Dr. Grimm stood with hands folded behind his back. Beside him, Dr. Adisa tapped readings on a soulfield scanner. Kane watched from the shadows, leaning against a support pillar with all the indifference of a man watching a zoo exhibit.

Five stood in the pit.

Max. Alyssa. Chloe. Dan. Victor.

They’d been given time to sleep, shower, and change into training gear—lightweight combat suits lined with some sort of dull wiring. Utility, not flash. But no one looked rested. Just sharpened.

Max stepped to the centre first.

“Alright,” he said, voice carrying in the dome. “No weapons. No showboating. We go one at a time. We push – hard – but we don’t break. Understood?”

Everyone nodded.

Alyssa cracked her neck. “Let’s see what this body can do.”

Chloe shifted beside her, arms crossed but eyes focused. Dan stretched both arms, gold light flickering along his fingertips. Victor stood still, jaw locked.

Max pointed to Victor. “You first.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

From the observation booth, Dr. Grimm’s voice crackled through the dome. “Let’s see if the good Doctor Drake fights like a biologist or a beast.”

Dr. Adisa glanced sideways. “Wait – he’s a real doctor?”

Grimm smirked. “Wildlife biology. PhD. Used to tranquilize lions. Now he becomes one.”

“That’s poetic.”

Grimm’s smile faded. “It’s inconvenient. He’ll be harder to control.”

Below Max smirked.

“You’re always telling me you’re better in a fight. Let’s see it.”

Victor stepped forward slowly, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to throw the first punch but his eyes weren’t on Max. They were turned inward.

A pulse of heat rolled off him.

A silver aura flared.

Then the change began.

It started in his spine – a crackling ripple like bones remembering something ancient. His arms thickened, muscle distorting, veins bulging. His breath hitched. Then came the fur – not soft, not clean. Coarse black strands forced their way through his skin like thorns. A mane erupted across his shoulders.

And underneath the growl that escaped his throat… was a scream.

Victor didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His jaw had already begun to reshape.

Claws extended from his fingers. Not like weapons – like regrets sharpened into bone. His spine bowed, hips shifting for predatory balance. A tail emerged. But his eyes – still human – were wide with restraint.

Max could feel it.

Not rage. Not hunger.

Grief.

Victor moved – fast, brutal, precise but there was no joy in it. Every lunge was like someone trying to outpace a memory. Every clawed strike left not just dents in the wall, but fragments of something internal.

He wasn’t fighting for dominance.

He was fighting not to be swallowed.

Max raised his voice. “Try fighting like you. Not like the thing inside.”

Victor roared – a thunderous, echoing sound but then slowed. He pulled back mid-swing, muscles twitching.

He stopped.

Let the Chimera recede. Slowly. One muscle, one bone at a time. Sweat poured from his brow, steam rising from his skin.

He turned back to Max.

Still breathing hard. But not lost.

Max nodded. “Better. That’s the line. Control over chaos.”

Victor exhaled, still trembling. “Feels like riding an avalanche.”

“You just learned how to steer.”

Victor nodded. Respect, not resentment.

Max turned. “Dan.”

Dan blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve got healing. Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

Dan stepped forward, nervous.

The moment he focused, his body lit with a soft golden halo – subtle but clear. Soul energy, pure and slow-moving. Healing, yes – but also… calming.

He touched a cracked section of the floor. The stone mended itself beneath his fingers. A vein of blue-white light spread through the alloy, sealing old wounds.

“Impressive,” Grimm murmured above.

Dan stood, unsure.

“More,” Max said. “Use it on Victor.”

Dan hesitated, then placed both palms on Victor’s shoulder.

Victor flinched. Then… blinked.

His breathing steadied. The sweat on his brow dried. His claws retreated without effort. The Chimera form calmed, then vanished entirely.

Max raised an eyebrow. “You regulate us.”

Dan looked surprised. “I do?”

Dr. Adisa tapped her tablet. “Affirmative. His aura creates harmonic resonance with adjacent soulfields. Stabilization-type. Extremely rare.”

Kane muttered, “A healer – a walking antidote.”

Victor clapped Dan on the shoulder. “Not bad, doc.”

Dan grinned sheepishly. “Thanks. I think.”

Max turned to Alyssa. “You next.”

She stepped forward, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s break something.”

Max backed away. “Don’t aim for breaking. Aim for control.”

Too late.

Alyssa inhaled – and her body dropped.

The floor groaned beneath her boots as she activated her power. Her skin darkened, veins glowing faintly blue, and the mineralized shell returned in patches – shoulders, spine, knuckles.

She stomped once. The ground shook.

Then she sprinted forward – each footstep an impact, each swing of her arm like a wrecking ball. She leapt, twisted, and slammed into the wall.

It shattered.

Dr. Adisa flinched. “She’s already at second-stage manifestation.”

“She’s overloading,” Max muttered.

“Alyssa!” he called. “Pull back!”

She didn’t listen.

She launched again – at him this time.

Max dodged, barely.

“Stop trying to hit me and try to miss!” he shouted.

That got her.

She dropped mid-air, twisted, and landed hard but gently enough not to crack the floor again. Her skin returned to normal.

She exhaled.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Max said. “You’re a hammer. But sometimes you need to be a scalpel.”

“Scalpels don’t punch holes in walls,” Alyssa muttered, smiling.

Max turned.

“Chloe.”

She was already stepping forward.

Her feet didn’t make sound.

The others backed away – instinctively.

She exhaled, and her body phased. Semi-transparent. A silver-grey ghostlight halo curling around her frame.

Max reached into his soul again. Felt for hers. It was there – fluid, elusive, watching.

“Try walking through the wall,” Max said.

Chloe looked at the obsidian dome.

And stepped forward.

Her body phased – and passed through it like mist.

Gone.

Everyone held their breath.

Then she emerged on the other side – through the wall. Her form shimmered, flickered – and then reformed.

“Jesus,” Dan whispered.

Chloe’s voice echoed from two spots at once.

“I can split.”

She stepped back into place but something was wrong.

Her shadow didn’t follow. It stayed behind, cast on the wall a few feet away, arms still lifted like she’d just been walking. It stared at them for a heartbeat longer than it should have.

Then it flickered.

Like a frame skipping in a video file.

Max blinked but the others saw it too.

Victor muttered, “What the hell…”

Chloe tilted her head slightly, as if hearing something they couldn’t. Then her eyes refocused.

“I can still feel myself,” she said softly. “The other me. The one that’s half a step behind. Or ahead. Or somewhere in between.”

She lifted her hand and waved. A faint afterimage of the gesture rippled a second later, as if space itself was echoing.

“I don’t think I’m fully in the same place as the rest of you anymore.”

Dan looked unsettled. “Can you turn that off?”

Chloe didn’t answer at first.

Her eyes glowed faint grey as she whispered, “Sometimes I wonder if I already have. And this is just what’s left.”

Max felt a chill rise through the room.

She turned her head, and for a split second – just one – her face flickered.

Not distorted. Not monstrous.

Just sad.

A version of her that looked older. Paler. Faded like an old photograph – and then gone.

Max nodded slowly.

“You don’t need reach,” he said. “You need focus.”

She didn’t respond. Just walked away – quiet as memory.

And then all eyes turned to Max.

He stepped forward.

Tension spiked.

He didn’t summon fire.

He didn’t phase.

He didn’t shift.

He simply stood still – and let it happen.

Fire rippled up his arms like cracks in porcelain. Golden light. Violet veins. Blue flickers. A storm of energy – Aamon’s legacy, the soul prison, his awakening spark – all of it tried to rise.

And he held it down.

Gritting his teeth.

Sparks danced across the dome’s ceiling.

Dan took a step forward, worried. “Max—”

“I’m fine,” Max growled.

He opened his hand – and the soul prison pulsed. For one second, everyone felt the heat. The pressure. The pull.

Then Max shut it off.

The energy vanished.

Silence.

Even Kane looked mildly surprised.

Dr. Grimm turned to Adisa. “Note that. He’s learning to suppress the convergence.”

Adisa nodded. “But it’s eating him. Slowly.”

Grimm smiled faintly. “Then we’ll see which burns first – his will or his soul.”

Max exhaled and turned to the others.

“Good work,” he said.

Everyone was sweating. Everyone was stunned. Everyone felt it.

Then Alyssa grunted and flopped onto the floor with a loud thud, cracking a fresh fracture in the obsidian tile.

“Okay,” she panted. “I officially hate gravity.”

Dan gave her a thumbs-up as he collapsed onto one knee beside her. “On behalf of physics, I’d like to apologize.”

Victor was pacing again, tailbone flicking slightly under his shirt. “Next time I go full beast, someone remind me to take my boots off first. These things are wrecked.”

Chloe sat down cross-legged a few feet away, her body still flickering faintly around the edges.

“I can’t tell if I’m tired… or just temporarily out of phase with exhaustion.”

“That’s either super poetic,” Dan said, “or incredibly concerning.”

Max dropped to the ground with them, his breath finally steady. He didn’t smile, but the sharp edge of command was gone from his voice.

“Dan,” he said. “Nice healing work.”

Dan perked up. “Thanks. Pretty sure I can also reverse hangovers, if that helps team morale.”

Alyssa raised a hand. “Sign me up.”

Victor smirked. “Don’t need healing. I need steak. Like a kilo of it. Bleeding.”

Chloe nodded solemnly. “Steak and ghosts. Our new team name.”

They all looked at her.

She shrugged. “What? It’s better than ‘Soul Squad’ or ‘Hellfire Club.’”

“Absolutely not,” Max said.

Victor shook his head. “You’re all idiots.”

And just like that, for one strange, quiet moment in the obsidian dome carved by forgotten nightmares—

They laughed.

Not loudly. Not long. But enough to remember they were still human.

Even now.

Even here.

This wasn’t just a team anymore.

It was a force.

Something new.

Something dangerous.

And above, in the viewing booth, Kane silently watched the group below.

“They’ll be ready,” he said softly.

Grimm didn’t respond.

He was already watching something else.

A small, flickering dot on a soul-tracker.

Moving slowly across Eastern Europe.

Headed west.

Toward them.

…………………

They called it the Truth Room.

Not because it forced truth out of people.

Because it refused to hold lies.

The room was circular. Small. Silent. Lined with memory-sensitive stone etched with ancient runes that shimmered when spoken to. A single obsidian table sat in the centre, surrounded by two chairs – one already occupied.

Dr. Grimm sat like he had always been there. His crimson-lined coat hung over the back of his chair, gloves folded neatly beside a tablet. A small decanter of something dark and thick – wine or maybe not – rested between two untouched glasses.

Max stood at the threshold.

“Enter,” Grimm said without looking up.

Max stepped inside. The door hissed shut behind him. He felt something shift in the air – like a lock closing on a part of himself he hadn’t known was open.

“No surveillance in this room,” Grimm said calmly. “Not even Kane’s tricks work here. So speak freely, or lie carefully. Either way, the walls will remember.”

Max sat.

Grimm poured the dark liquid into both glasses. Didn’t offer it – just let it sit. Waiting.

“So,” Max said. “You’re not just the guy in charge.”

“No,” Grimm said. “I’m also the one they’re scared of.”

Max studied him. “You’re a Contractor.”

It wasn’t a question.

Grimm smiled faintly. “I made a deal. A long time ago.”

“With what?”

“That’s the wrong question.”

Max leaned forward. “Then what’s the right one?”

Grimm tapped the glass. “Ask me what I gave up.”

Max didn’t blink. “What did you give up?”

Grimm finally met his eyes.

“Peace,” he said. “I gave up the right to sleep through the night. The ability to forget. The comfort of uncertainty. When you know too much – when everything becomes inevitable – it stops feeling like knowledge. And starts feeling like gravity.”

Max was silent.

“I didn’t ask for power,” Grimm continued. “I asked for understanding. That was my mistake.”

“And what did you get?”

“Almost all of it.”

Max frowned. “Almost?”

Grimm nodded once. “The demon I contracted was clever. Cruel. It gave me knowledge – yes – but not control. It showed me what could be done, not how to stop it. It let me see the disease without the cure. And then it came back. Night after night.”

Max's voice dropped. “Feeding.”

Grimm didn’t nod. Didn’t need to.

Max saw it in his eyes.

“Half a soul,” Max said quietly.

“Less now,” Grimm replied. “It comes slower these days. I found ways to ward it off. To trap it, sometimes. But it still visits. And every time it does, I remember something I wish I could forget.”

Max looked at the walls.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Grimm said, “you’re the first one I’ve seen who didn’t pay.”

Max tensed.

“You broke the rules,” Grimm said softly. “You signed nothing. You awakened through sheer desperation and trauma. The demon gave you power – and you devoured it.”

Max said nothing.

“But that doesn’t make you free,” Grimm said. “It makes you a flare.”

Max frowned. “I’m controlling it.”

Grimm leaned forward, voice low. “No, Mr. Jaeger. You’re not a threat because you’re unstable. You’re a lighthouse in a world of shadows. Every demon in existence can see you. Smell you. Taste the soulfire burning in your veins.”

He tapped the table.

“In a world of dying candles, you’re a nuclear detonation. And your daughter? She’s brighter. The ones you awaken? Each one becomes another beacon. Another meal.”

Grimm’s eyes gleamed, not with fear – with calculation.

“You’ve made yourself food,” he said. “Not just for scavengers. For Lords. You didn’t just break the rules, Max. You lit a bonfire and invited Hell to dinner.”

A silence stretched.

…………………

Grimm poured more wine. Didn’t drink.

“I’ve seen the shape of what’s coming,” Grimm said. “It’s not just demons slipping into our world. It’s order. A new structure. A new theology, disguised as hunger.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Thought they were chaos.”

“They were,” Grimm said. “Wild. Scattered. Predatory. But not organized. Not until now.”

He stood, walked slowly to a panel on the wall. The lights dimmed as a projection flared – spindly, shifting symbols forming into a jagged, spiralling web.

“There’s hierarchy now,” Grimm continued. “Ranks. Territories. Domains. Indescribably powerful Demon Lords – beings that once ruled only scraps of Hell – are now here. On Earth. Building thrones.”

The web twisted. Cities lit up – red pulses in Europe, Asia, Africa.

“They’re no longer just feeding,” Grimm said. “They’re settling. Naming strongholds. Claiming humans like cattle.”

Max’s voice dropped. “How many?”

“Too many. And they’re not fighting each other like they used to. They’re talking. Planning.” Grimm’s gaze sharpened. “Hell isn’t at war anymore, Mr. Jaeger. It’s at peace – and peace is when kings rise.”

He turned, eyes glinting with something between dread and obsession.

“And if they build a kingdom here… humanity doesn’t get a second chance.”

Max exhaled slowly.

Grimm returned to the table, hands clasped behind his back.

“I’ve run simulations,” he said. “Played every probability, mapped every trajectory. All of them end the same way.”

Max looked up. “With what?”

Grimm’s voice dropped.

“Extinction. Not fire. Not blood. Assimilation. Humanity doesn’t die screaming. It kneels. It adapts. Becomes part of the food chain. Becomes the currency.”

Max stared at the floor, jaw tight.

“You think I caused this?”

“No,” Grimm said. “But you accelerated it. You opened a door that never should’ve existed. And the worst part is… I think we need you.”

Max blinked. “To do what?”

Grimm finally sat again, folding his gloves with care, like a man preparing for an autopsy.

“To stand in front of the fire and not burn. To fight monsters without becoming one. To make a new rulebook – before theirs is finished.”

He looked Max in the eye.

“You are the variable, Max Jaeger. The one thing the old world didn’t account for. Which means you can do what the rest of us can't.”

Max leaned forward. “And what’s that?”

Grimm’s smile was paper-thin. “Change the ending.”

He stood slowly, retrieving his gloves and sliding them on with precise, practiced ease. The decanter between them still shimmered with untouched wine, the colour too dark for blood, too thick for ink.

“But a word of warning,” Grimm said, smoothing his cuffs. “Variables are useful. Until they become unstable. Then they’re… corrected.”

Max stared at him. “Is that what you’re here to do? Correct me?”

Grimm didn’t answer. He walked to the wall, placed one hand flat against a rune – let it shimmer beneath his palm.

“I once thought I was the key to everything,” he said softly. “A mind sharp enough to cut through destiny. But now I think… maybe I was just the first symptom. The opening notes in a much darker song.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“You? You’re the chorus.”

The rune flared. The door opened.

Grimm stepped through without another word.

Max remained at the table, fists clenched, eyes on the wine.

It hadn’t moved.

Neither had the tremor in his hand.

And on the wall behind him, the memory-stone shimmered again – recording not the words…

But the weight behind them.