Move the Headstones. Piotr tore through the hinges with a pebble from his pocket and opened the door into Nat’s room. Inside was a small bed tucked into the corner, along with several children’s toys scattered on the ground—including a drawing of the three of them with a purple pencil crayon next to it. Piotr bent down to look at it, examining the date. It was three years ago when they all moved in here and Nat drew this of them. But the colours were slightly off, and it was a bit messier than he remembered.

Because it was dripping with blood. And that’s when Piotr realized that Nat wasn’t in their bedroom at all.

Piotr suddenly received a message from Cyrille, but he was too angry with him and too terrified of how he had let his child come to harm to read it. Instead, he stood up, turned on his heels and began to run for the door. Which he also saw was now closed.

Natasha Ivanov checked the various bedrooms for the intruders. She could hear the wind they were generating in the normally silent upstairs and was searching room by room for the location. She had shut each door in the hallway, trapping the two intruders completely inside their rooms until she could arrive to . . . well they were already silenced. But now without the use of Talk to the Wind. The first room she entered was dark. And quiet. A bathroom.

Cyrille wasn’t sure when Natasha would actually enter the bathroom he was hiding in. Curled up in the bathtub, separated from the rest of the bathroom by a thin curtain, Cyrille held his breath. Unless he wanted to leave the safety of his curtained hidey hole, he would have no way of knowing when Natasha had entered—or when she had left. And if she did find him, it would be over. He had barely survived just one assault from her; surviving a second one would be out of the question. Especially considering Chorus could only . . . make Chorus.

But then something really weird happened.

Cyrille, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into? Why do you have to have so much empathy for children? It would save you so much time. And maybe you wouldn’t have had four of them. It had been a few minutes since Cyrille decided to hide after realizing Natasha had sealed him inside. Would she turn on the lights when she entered? Well not if she’s already cut the power. As Cyrille catastrophized in the bathtub, a favourite hobby of his even when not under assault by a wind witch, he felt something appear in his hand. Opening his eyes in shock, he looked down and slowly opened his palm to see . . . the link of a chain. Made of solid Chorus. What the fuck?

Natasha had made her way to the curtain that hung on her shower. Slowly coiling her fingernails around it, she pulled back to see . . . nothing. It was empty. For a split second, it seemed that there was a figure crouched inside, shivering in fear. But now, it was empty.

Cyrille would have screamed upon seeing Natasha’s ghastly visage tear away the shower curtain. He could see her face, twisted and peeling, pale and flaking away, revealing her muscle tissue and bone structure beneath it. She had gotten worse in the past hour. But as Natasha realized what she was looking at and began to descend on helpless Cyrille . . . something even weirder happened.

She stopped. And then she started moving backwards—away from Cyrille. She stepped back unnaturally and turned back to look at the bathroom mirror. Then under the cabinet. All in reverse. Cyrille watched in awe as he slowly stood up, watching Natasha rewind. He slowly tiptoed past her, and she didn’t notice at all. Cyrille looked down as he passed and seemed to see what was happening to her.

Just below her clothes, he could see that she was covered in chains made of Chorus. Is this . . . is this me? Did I do this? Cyrille thought. He was standing in the hallway now, watching Natasha fiddle around in the bathroom. Then, she stopped and began to fast forward back to the point when she was rewound. But Cyrille had already left.

* * *

“It’s okay, Piotr.”

Thomas Finn could see his friend lying on the floor of his bedroom collapsed in a dazed heap. He was holding an empty blue bottle in his hand. He was groaning as his eyes opened wide and blinked repeatedly to cleanse the sleep. “You can take my bed tonight. I doubt you’d fit on the couch.” Piotr had brought Rocky here after dropping off Blair’s Cats, the day after Thomas had relived Dominic’s birthday.

Slowly, Piotr began to talk. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Thomas. I hadn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .” He sounded apologetic and exhausted. “I just saw it, and I—”

“You couldn’t resist. I’ve been in that boat before after having a rough day. It’s probably been a long time since you’ve had a drop of the stuff, huh?” Thomas asked as Piotr sat himself upright and Thomas sat on the floor next to him. “I must have missed that bottle. I was purging them yesterday.” The two sat in silence for a moment, staring at the empty bottle that was now on the ground. “So, did you win?” Thomas asked.

“Pardon?” Piotr responded.

“I’m guessing you were remembering a Civ battle you had. That’s what I always do.”

Piotr was quiet for a moment. “It was the death of my wife. Worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Thomas, why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we make ourselves hurt like this?”

“I don’t know, man. But I think, and I’m no shrink, but . . . I think it’s because you’re grieving. When you grieve, you don’t think of happy stuff that’s completely unrelated to the person you’re grieving. You think of them. All of them. Even the stuff that makes you hurt the most. It’s like stage-four depression. But you want to know the good news?”

“What?”

“There are only five stages. So, tell me how it ends.”

* * *

Natasha saw a small young child walking around in the shadowy hallway ahead of her. It was too dark to make out specific details, but she knew it was hers. “Honey! Get back to the basement. It isn’t safe up here, darling!” Natasha shouted, her voice immediately transforming into a light breeze and carrying over to the child. As a result, however, it was impossible for Piotr to hear what Natasha was saying as he lay in wait inside a nearby bedroom. Natasha began to run towards Nat, frustrated by their lack of cooperation as the child just wandered around in circles. “NAT! LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER!” she shouted, her voice transforming into a powerful gust that shot her forwards towards her escaped infant.

Now. Piotr thought to himself as the silhouette of his wife neared “Nat.” At this thought, the child exploded into dozens of children’s toys, blocks, and articles of clothing as several projectiles were shot into the surprised face of Natasha.

A doll? she thought as she attempted to bat away the blocks and crayons, which were glowing with kinetic energy, But it only entered the hand she tried to bat them with, and soon, Piotr’s trap had transformed Natasha into a human strait jacket. He stepped out of his child’s bedroom to see his wife’s skin moulded together at the joints and fingers, leaving her immobile. Piotr held up a piece of paper that read, written in crayon: Talk, please?

Natasha lowered Talk to the Wind. “Fine. What is it?”

“Where are you keeping our kid?” Piotr said furiously, but he remained calm and collected as he spoke. She was still his partner, after all.

“Why would you do this to me, Piotr? You said you’d never hurt me . . .” Natasha feigned a sad expression.

“You’re perfectly fine. All I did was fill some toys with kinetic energy to make them walk around for a bit.”

“What about when I do this?” The skin on the top of Natasha’s fingers was fused with the skin on either shoulder. And in a moment, the woman had ripped them off, skinning her fingers and leaving tiny little mittens of dermis pinned to her collarbone. She screamed as blood dripped from her digits, but no sound came out, only a blast of concussive air that sent Piotr flying back out towards the open window.

* * *

Every instinct in Cyrille’s body told him to leave. Get the fuck out of this nightmare house! It’s crazy! DO NOT STAY HERE! Cyrille knew these statements were all sound pieces of advice to give during these trying times. But there was one door Cyrille hadn’t checked—one that he’d walked past as he descended the stairs and power walked towards the front door. I fucking hate basements, Cyrille thought as he slowly began to open the door. There was a powerful gust of wind holding it shut, however, keeping Cyrille from entering the lower floor of the cabin. Of course. Once I learn that it’s impossible to get down there, I also learn that that is definitely the place where Piotr’s kid is being hidden, Cyrille begrudgingly thought to himself as he attempted to slam down the door.

Piotr hung onto the edges of the window for dear life, facing the strongest wind he’d ever felt, which threatened to send him right out of the house. Then, he received a message on his Unit.

They’re in the basement. Need help breaking down the door. Maybe hit her so the wind goes away?

“Fuck.” Piotr mouthed to himself. That’s when he decided to let go. Immediately after letting his fingers release, Piotr flew out of the house through the broken window and onto the stone cavern floor, slamming into the indestructible rock. He would have knee problems for the rest of his life, but at least he didn’t need to get past Natasha.

Cyrille saw Piotr enter through the front door as he continued to try and body-check the basement one. Piotr instead fired a small marble at the joints, causing them to break apart and the door to fly off its hinges. The staircase down to the basement was like a wind tunnel, and the two friends were forced to hold onto the railing as they tiptoed down the steps, further and further, deeper and deeper. At the bottom, Piotr could see his child wailing in the corner, encircled by a tornado. This alone would be troubling enough . . . but when Piotr realized WHY Nat was wailing, his heart sank an extra level.

Nat’s eyes had been torn out, leaving two mangled masses of retina and iris that couldn’t see but could still cry. Piotr and Cyrille felt a rush of wind coming down the stairs now, meaning that Natasha had entered the stairwell. The two men looked at each other, panicked and terrified . . . and became even more so when Natasha’s silent figure floated down to the basement brandishing several kitchen knives in the air around her. But as the wind demon silently rushed them, Cyrille did everything he could to stop it.

And he did.

Natasha was wrapped in Chorus chains, moving backwards instead of forwards. Cyrille turned to his friend to mouth the words Kill her now to save your child.

* * *

“So, that’s what I did. When Cyrille let her out of the chains, I used Move the Headstones to . . . neutralize her. There was no choice,” Piotr lamented.

“What happened next?” Thomas asked.

“Cyrille tried to save Nat’s vision by using that freaky Civ ability on their eyes, but all it did was make them go permanently blind. Except now they just keep rewatching the same gruesome scene of their mother’s murder. After the police arrived, Cyrille refused to take the heat, explaining that he had more children to take care of. So, he used his Civ again and left. And now you’re up to speed.”