Repairing the twenty-foot hole proved to be a taunting task. The hole was so wide and deep that the bottom disappeared into the shadows.

Tossing a rope down and pulling survivors up had been the first desperate idea, but the sheer scale and instability of the sides made the strategy useless.

Esme ran back and forth from the edge of the hole, working with the few lengths of rope they'd salvaged from Home Hardware. It wasn't nearly enough. Each attempt to pull someone up was risky, and more than a few people had been injured in the process. Still, she didn't stop.

Zane stared into the gaping void, unsure how they'd ever fill something this massive. The idea of covering it with a tarp felt absurd—it would only collapse or make things worse.

The kids had been riding their bikes like any afternoon—laughing, racing, daring to go faster.

Then someone shouted.

Ashley was standing on the road, staring at nothing.

Then the ground beneath her did just crack. It collapsed.

Zane could see the bikes scattered like toys, their wheels spinning in the air before they disappeared.

The line of bodies at the edge told the rest.

Eleven were already gone.

The others were broken, bleeding, and screaming—alive, but barely.

Esme, exhausted and shaky, had already pulled up most of the bodies. Two still remained at the bottom, waiting to be retrieved.

Zane tightened the clip on his belt loop and swallowed hard. The role felt thin in his hands.

"Hold tight!" Xander called down.

Zane was lowered into the pit. The darkness swallowed the light so quickly it felt like the air itself was being erased.

Every inch was a test. His fingers began to burn with friction. His stomach flipped as the wind pressed down on his chest.

The rope jolted.

A small rock broke loose and fell past him, disappearing into the black with a distant clink.

Zane's heart hammered in his ears.

He reached the bottom.

The ground was cold and damp, like the pit had been holding its breath for years. The smell of wet earth and rot filled his nose.

And then he saw them.

Two kids. One face down. One lying still, twisted at an angle that made Zane's stomach drop.

He knelt beside the first girl, his hands shaking. He pressed his fingers to her wrist. Nothing.

"Dead!" he called up.

He tied the second rope around the her waist and gave the signal. As she was pulled up, he followed shortly after, climbing with the rest of his strength.

At the surface, he gently laid the girl down, her limbs limp and face smudged with dirt.

Zane's last decent felt different.

It wasn't just the darkness anymore. It was the silence.

The rope stopped moving.

He hung there for a second, suspended in the void, listening. No wind. No distant shouts. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing.

Then, faintly, he saw it.

A swallow pool of water at the bottom, half hidden in shadow.

But it wasn't the water that caught his attention. It was the colour. A light purple, slick and wet, clinging to the rocks like spilled paint.

It didn't just sit there. It moved. Not like liquid.

Zane leaned closer. The glow was faint, but it felt wrong, like a warning.

Xander and Yara slowly lowered him back to the surface.

Once he was back on solid ground, Xander pushed a green wheelbarrow toward the graves.

"We have a lot to bury," he said quietly.

They could've used Uden's cars to move the bodies, and piling in the firetruck wasn't an option either. Zane still wasn't the best driver either, and none of them wanted this to turn in to a rushed mess. So, Yara and Xander each carried a body carefully, making their way toward Clifton Park to give the children a proper burial.

Zane worked alongside Talia Denton, who gripped the opposite handle of the wheelbarrow with steady hands. A large scar ran along her cheek, framing her brown eyes that seemed too tired for someone so young.

He remembered she was one of Ashley's friends, though they hadn't spoken since the ditch incident.

"Eleven bodies," Talia said quietly.

Xander continued carrying bodies to the graves, while a few others drug and lined them up side by side.

"How did this happen?" Greyson asked, stepping up to the group with a sharp look.

"One of the injured said Ashley caused it somehow," Zane replied.

"Someone said it started from her feet," Yara added.

Zane had no other explanation for the destruction except Ashley's involvement. Maybe more people were starting to develop these strange supernatural powers, and no one knew what that could mean.

"So, it melted the ground beneath them?" Greyson asked.

"Whoa." Zane turned his head and spotted Scarlett approaching.

"Did you rank Ashley wrong?" Greyson snapped.

"When I ranked her, she was low," Scarlett sighed. "Are you sure she caused the hole and all those deaths?"

"That purple stuff I think made things worse," Yara said quietly. "I saw it on Ashley after she fell and hurt her knee. It seeped from it, like a liquid, and then it just disappeared."

"Do you know where she went?" Greyson asked.

"No idea," Xander answered with a shrug.

Greyson turned and walked away, leaving Scarlett behind. She caught Xander's eye and winked with a sly smirk. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, making her snicker as she sauntered off.

Zane said nothing about Scarlett's tendency for using boys to get whatever she wanted. He knew her game all too well, and he wasn't about to fall for it.

They buried the bodies into separate graves, covering them with dirt, leaves and any whatever debris they could gather. It wasn't perfect, but it was all they had.

"Maybe we should just close the road," Talia suggested. "That's what construction crews do when something like this happens, right?"

"We'd have to get people to move," Xander said. "Some people still live on that street."

"We could block it off, but only let the people who live there stay," Zane said with a sigh.

He knew they couldn't just dig up dirt from a nearby field and fill the hole—it would take trailers, manpower, and coordination. Even then, people might try to dig through it, either out of curiosity or desperation.

"We could try surrounding it with cinder blocks," Xander said, looking uncertain. "I mean, we don't have machines, but maybe it would hold for now."

Zane considered the idea. If they wanted cinder blocks, they'd have to make them themselves, his father had taught him a few things about working with cement, since he's been a construction worker before everything fell apart.

"Let's close the road and start making cinder blocks," Zane said.

"We're going to need someone strong to lift. I doubt the girls can manage it," Xander said.

Yara and Talia exchanged a look but gave a small nod in agreement, since there was no room for ego now, but urgency.

It would take Zane and Xander days to make and move blocks on their own. Unless someone had the power that made lifting easier. Greyson could move things with his mind, but he wouldn't lift a finger for them.

As they finished burying the last body, everyone watched Talia place handmade crosses on each grave. They were simple popsicle sticks glued together in different colours, with names written on the back whenever they knew them.

"Okay, who here can actually lift stuff without breaking their back?" Zane asked. "We're going to need help."

"I heard someone in the main plaza might be developing it," Xander said, running a hand through his afro.

Zane spotted Devon Horne heading toward the graveyard, grinning wildly and almost bouncing with each step. One arm looked noticeably bigger than the other—unless it was some illness Devon had to be the one with superhuman strength.

"Check this loud, I'm super strong," Devon said, flexing his arm. "No one even comes close."

Zane walked over to him. "We need your help making cinder blocks," he told him.

"Maybe Greyson will give you something to help," Yara added.

Greyson had become the mayor of The Bubble, and no one dared challenge him. Hearing this seemed to spark a fire in Devon. Were students at Uden using others to their achieve goals instead of true power? Maybe, but for now, Zane just wanted Devon's help in.

"We're heading to grab some bags of gravel," Zane said.

The two made their way toward the Home Hardware, unsure if any gravel would be left after so much had already been taken for the holes around Uden and beyond.

Standing outside the hardwood store, Zane thought about how to make cement. It wasn't sold ready-made—just a mix of gravel and clay, both supplies usually stocked.

Henry and Finn stood blocking the entrance. Of all people, it had to be the ones who'd tried to kill Jason.

"What do you wanted?" Henry snapped, baring a snarl.

"We need to make cinder blocks to cover the hole," Zane said firmly.

Henry let out a short laugh, gripping a baseball bat in his right hand. "Fine," he spat, stepping aside to let them in.

Inside, most supplies had been stripped bare. They searched the store for anything useful—mostly empty shelves, cans of paint, and boxes of screws. Tools were either taken or hidden out of reach.

"Got some!" Devon called out, effortlessly lugging two heavy bags of gravel.

Zane quickly grabbed whatever he could find to make blocks—buckets mostly. They were on a high shelf, but he managed to pull several down. He glanced back before stepping out of the store. Devon followed, carrying three heavy bags.

People crowded the streets, trying to weave around them. It wasn't exactly organized—no one really knew what to do anymore. With that strange substance and Greyson's leadership, chaos seemed inevitable.

It wasn't the wounds that hurt Stick—it was the memory of hitting Vickie over and over, replaying like a broken tape in his mind. He was supposed to be playing soccer in America next year, scouts in Michigan already watching. On the field, his focus should have been on scoring or reading the goalie's stance.

Stick, the golden boy—popular, talented, friends with Henry for years. They bonded over soccer and parties. They didn't hang out much, but when they did, their friendship was solid.

Now, lying in the dark, sweaty locker room, Stick had no energy to move. He knew Luke would come back—and when he did, it wouldn't be pretty.

Slowly, Stick pushed himself up, head hanging low, as if the word "murderer" were branded across his skin.

He lifted his arm. Deep cuts crisscrossed his skin, dried blood darkening each wound. His torn soccer jersey lay forgotten nearby, revealing bruises spreading his chest, ribs and shoulder.

He tried to stand but groaned as pain shot through his legs, forcing him back to his knees.  Scrapes and cuts marked every inch of his legs, raw and aching. No one had noticed he was gone.

Stick—popular jock, the guy who could have any girl with a simple smile—had vanished.

Before everything went wrong, school and weekend hangouts didn't feel like choices. Stick led the soccer team and was assistant captain of the hockey team, since Nelson held that spot. Parties were mostly about snacks, games, and showing off, though some brought alcohol.

For him, it was all about fitting in, forgetting the pressure—even if it was just for a few hours.

Leaning against the wall, he dragged himself toward the sinks. Streaks of dark blood marred the porcelain. A loose tooth floated in one basin, turning his stomach.

At the door, he gripped the wooden railing and hauled himself up the stairs. Every movement made his limbs throb, his arms burn—but he forced himself onward.

At the top, he drew a deep breath and yanked the door open. He collapsed onto the floor beyond.

Bright sunlight from a nearby window blinded him. He leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.

He needed to ease the pain and slowly made his way down the hall, searching for a nurse's office. He passed by classrooms—science labs, detention classrooms—but found nothing.

Finally, he stumbled into another classroom and saw a couch. Without hesitation, he collapsed onto it, groaning in pain.

The couch was plush and inviting, but every movement sent sharp pains shooting through his body. Henry may yell at him for being such a coward for taking all these injuries, killing Vickie and letting Esme go.

Voices startled him awake. "Is that roadkill?" one said.

"Looks like a cat scratcher," another added.

A girl with short hair leaned over him, scrunching her face. Stick's stomach churned at the disgust in her eyes. Panic clawed at him—he wanted to disappear.

"It's a guy!" another girl screamed, peering closer. over at him and screaming in horror.

"Just leave him!" they shouted, scattering from the room.

Stick flinched at the sound of their retreat, relieved and humiliated at once.

Looking for help didn't seem like an option anymore. He desperately needed to clear his mind of the pain, which drinking alcohol seemed to be the only option he could think of. He was aware that drugs would take too long to have any effect, and he was a lightweight, which helped. Once he got drunk, people might forgive him for his crimes.

Lost in his pain and guilt, Stick barely registered the movement as someone tugged at him across the floor. He didn't have the energy to open his eyes. When he finally did, he froze. It was Andrew Carters. Relief and fear collided in his chest—could he trust him?

"We need to get you out," Andrew said, eyes darting left and right.

Stick's impression of Uden Academy was that it was a jail. They were forced to do whatever they ordered while being able to get away with anything. Pushing open a back door, his leg wounds seemed to open along the cement.

Andrew opened the door of a car parked out back, causing his heart to race. Car, road, and death. Vickie's dead body is somewhere in a ditch being decomposed. It made him tremble when he was pulled into the backseat. Andrew started the car that zigzagged down the highway to Simcoe.

"Where do you live?" Andrew called.

"76 Park Ave." Stick murmured.

After a few minutes, he felt the car stop and the door open while he was lying limp on the ground. Andrew pulled him out by his foot. Lying on the grass, he just stared up at the large oak tree in front of his house. Since he didn't know the kid, he had to consider the consequences if he stayed there. It made him slowly stand, grabbing the railing on the stone steps.

Opening the door, Andrew helped him toward the living room. Inside, a small couch and a recliner were in were places along with a TV and two coffee tables. He hobbled to the old recliner, and pulled down the handle to relax his body. It still stung all over when he grabbed some leftover popcorn from the bowl next to him. He started to eat the popcorn, despite how expired it may have been.

"I'll be leaving, and I'll tell Henry you're back," Andrew said.

Stick grabbed a half-empty beer bottle from beside a bowl and chugged it. Once he drained it completely, he unsteadily made his way towards the basement door. The basement was where they kept most of the liquor for gatherings or casual drinking sessions. They often had sports celebrations during playoffs or hosted parties for New Years.

As Stick descended the stairs leading to the white-carpeted room below, he wandered toward the polished bar that dominated one corner. Stacks of boxes filled with various beer bottles cluttered the floor, due to past parties. He opened the mini fridge nearby and found an assortment of coolers inside; without hesitation, he grabbed a few and placed them into an empty box. However, as he lifted it, he stumbled slightly while carrying it.

Slowly, he used his ankles to slide the boxes across the floor, each movement sending jolts of pain through his leg.

Finally, he collapsed onto a plush brown sofa. Shelves stacked with books surrounded him, and a TV sat tucked between two tall stacks.

He reached for a bottle, popped the tab and took a long drink, letting the cold liquid burn down his throat. The memory of Vickie crawled at his mind, but with each swallow, he tried to push the pain out of his body—just long enough to breathe, just long enough to think.

Jason stood at the edge of the massive hole in the middle of the street. Barricades of cinder blocks and "Road Closed" had slowed the chaos, but some people were still trapped in their homes.

Devon, with incredible strength in one arm, was trying to help, but even he couldn't cover the entire area.

This wasn't an ordinary pothole. Its edges were jagged and blackened, and the destruction it caused had claimed more lives than it spared.

"Did Ashley do this?" Bella asked, her eyes fixed on the gaping hole.

Jason hesitated. He couldn't stop thinking about Uden—the hole Ashley had created there. It hadn't shattered like drywall. It had dissolved, almost burned away from existence.

Could that really be her power? He thought of her low rank—it didn't add up.

"Apparently, with her feet," Yara added, stepping closer to help secure the perimeter.

First this Grower, who they had no idea what it was. Now Ashley, tearing through the streets like they were paper. He didn't even have time to process. Not really.

Yet, even as destruction spread before him, Jason's thoughts stayed to Bella.

The kiss from yesterday lingered in his mind—quick, impulsive but undeniably real.

Words hadn't been exchanged since; too much fear, too much chaos.

Every moment at the edge of the hole forced a choice between the mission and the pull toward her.

"Do you think I should try to find Ashley?" Jason asked.

Zane didn't look up. "Depends if you want to die alone."

"I won't die," Jasom said firmly. "If I go alone, I might get closer. People talk less when there's fewer of us. Ashley might... I don't know. Recognize me."

"But where would she be?" Zane asked, finally meeting his eyes.

Jason looked away, searching for anything when his attention snapped toward the street.

A blur zipped toward them from Richmond street.

"Bang bang!" Esme skidded to a stop, grinning, clutching a brightly coloured water gun like it was a flamethrower.

Her running shoes were tattered, toes peeling through, and her shorts streaked with dirt. Her white shirt was now a patchwork of grass stains and faded cartoon print.

From her pocket, she pulled a tiny vial and carefully poured its contents into the gun. The liquid shimmered faintly as it mixed.

"Rubbing alcohol and food colouring," she announced proudly, shaking the gun. "If this doesn't work, Jason can use his burning light."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You tested it?"

She shrugged. "Nope. But it smells awful and bubbles. That usually means something's gonna hate it."

"We will try to find something about why people vanished," Jason said.

The edges toward the open street. Near the sidewalk, a golf cart sat unattended, keys still in the cupholder. Jason moved toward it, but Esme hip-checked him aside and jumped in.

"I'm driving," she declared, legs barely reaching the pedal.

Jason climbed in beside her, hands tensely on his lap.

The cart buzzed past wreckage—abandoned homes, empty vehicles, and overgrown lawns. His fingers brushed his knee, eyes scanning for clues.

Along the highway, the grass swayed slightly, expect for where it had died. In several spots, the soil turned dark, almost charcoal, and cars lay discarded in ditches.

Then Esme slammed on the brakes. The cart rocked sharply near a steep incline.

"Purple stuff!" she shouted.

Jason looked and froze. Thick, glossy, and otherworldly, a purple substance pulsed across the pavement. It wasn't reflective—it absorbed light. The surrounding grass was blackened, curled inward.

"Why does it look like grape yogurt?" Esme crouched, staring but careful not to touch it.

Jason swallowed. "Don't—"

Too late. She fired her water gun at the puddle. The liquid hissed as it struck the purple substance. It recoiled violently, twisting and spiralling toward the ditch as though it scorched.

A voice hissed behind them: "God didn't like that."

He and Esme whipped around. Vickie stood there, oddly still. Her arms hung limply at her sides, and her eyes glowed faint lavender, the pupils gone. Dried blood crusted small wounds along her hairlin.

Jason froze, then his gaze dropped to Vickie's leg—bent at an impossible angle, dragging along the pavement.

Esme screamed and fired the water gun. The stream hit Vickie squarely in the chest. Instantly, she melted into a puddle of violet sludge, splattering across the grass.

Jason's heart raced.

The puddle shivered. It wasn't inert—it seemed to pulse and pull itself together, swirling violently as if trying to reform Vickie. There were no bones, no blood, no bones, just the writhing liquid.

"That didn't kill her," he muttered.

"Nope," Esme said, cocking the gun again. "It melted her."

Jason stepped back, shoes crunching over brittle, dead grass. The purple substance wasn't a weapon or toxin—it was alive.

Esme crouched slightly, peering at the liquid. "If this stuff is trying to get us to eat yogurt, I'm out."

He ignored her joke. His eyes stared locked on the swirling purple mass, realizing it wasn't just a puddle. It was sentient and Vickie was connected to it.

"Who's God, though?" Jason asked.

The only idea of god he had came from church sermons or old  TV shows, where all-powerful beings watched over mortals. But this purple substance, whatever it was, didn't seem divine. It warped people. Twisted them.

Ashley wasn't exactly like herself anymore—her voice too cold, her eyes wrong. Not just different from her age, but different from human. If this thing made her a god, then maybe "god" meant something far darker than he'd ever imagine.

"Ashley is God, so we help it before the goddess attacks," Vickie spat, suddenly materializing in front of them again.

Jason flinched. Vickie's presence felt thinner each time, like she wasn't fully tethered to reality anymore. But her words struck. Ashley? A god? No, Ashley wasn't even Ashley anymore.

Whatever the purple substance, it didn't act like a drug that Melany once described to Cindy. It wasn't a chemical. No drugs rewrites who you are. No drug makes you loose your pupils.

"What goddess?" Jason asked.

"We don't know when she'll appear," Vickie replied. "Or who she is."

Esme shot Vickie again, and her form dissolved into liquid, splattering across the pavement like spilled paint.

Jason's pulse quickened. God. Goddess. Were those just words people tossed around now, or actual beings beyond their understanding? Maybe they weren't even people at all.

"Maybe it's someone who hasn't awakened their powers yet?" Esme offered, lowering her water gun slightly.

Jason shook his head. It couldn't be just powers—that didn't explain the fear, the changes, or the way the world changed around them. Something was coming. And it wasn't from here.

Adults wouldn't survive entering the barrier; the electric shock alone would shred them. No, this goddess wasn't someone trapped with them. She was outside this place.

"What if they break into The Bubble?" Jason asked quietly.

That could be it. Maybe the goddess wasn't already here, but coming to free them. What if she wasn't part of the trap, but the one meant to shatter it? Maybe that was the clue they'd missed all along: the goddess wasn't a threat to fear, but a force meant to tear this place apart.

"Ashley is afraid of the goddess," Vickie appeared for the third time.

Esme immediately fired again, drenching her until she melted into another purple puddle. "Afraid?" she muttered, eyebrows furrowed.

Jason's stomach twisted. Ashley hadn't flinched at Greyson. She didn't even blink when he rescued her. If she was afraid of something, then whoever the goddess was, it had to be powerful enough to shake even the monster Ashley had become.

"If the goddess isn't here yet, does that mean she's coming for us?" Esme asked, her fingers tightening around the green and yellow water gun.

"Maybe that's what the vanishing was about," Jason gasped.

Esme paused, then stepped back into the golf cart and dropped into the driver's seat. "But why? Why people over fifteen?"

Jason rubbed his chin, his eyes scanning the field. "Maybe they weren't taken. Maybe they were called. Pulled out. Like the goddess made a way for them to escape, except us."

"Maybe we should try to summon this goddess," Esme said suddenly, pulling a peanut butter cookie from her pocket. "Not like a cult or anything. But if she is a person, maybe someone at Uden? James has a list of those who have developed abilities."

Esme broke off a small piece of the cookie and offered it to Jason.

As he chewed, his mind raced. Could this goddess be someone without powers, or someone whose abilities were just beginning to surface? Someone who might have been enhanced to challenge Ashley—the monster she'd become.

If that were true, then none of them stood a chance against Ashley. Was it some monster or creation that influences people who feel lonely? Vickie wasn't lonely, but she seemed injured. Why hadn't she received aid from Cindy or Melany?

Jason stepped back toward the side of the cart, eyes locked on the twisted mess of the highway. Vickie's illusion proved one thing: she wasn't fully real anymore.

If Ashley was this thing, this twisted god born from the purple substance, then maybe she was the force everyone needed to avoid.

Wasaga Beach appeared as they neared the end of the tunnel—an exit nobody could leave. Jason glanced at the hospital. She wouldn't be there. Maybe hiding was the only chance, but would Ashley even allow it?

Her eyes—pupil-less, glowing violet like Vickie's—weren't human. Most eyes had a white outer ring and a coloured centre. These were something else entirely.

If this was the work of a monster inside Ashley, then the danger wasn't just to them—it could claim anyone left in The Bubble. And with the goddess still out there, no one knew when it would appear—or whether they would survive when it did.

Do you think Ashley can be defeated by their own powers?
-Lexi