That night, beneath a sky washed in slate blue, Mike and Kuro sat under the western awning, a forgotten corner of campus where the signal was too weak to stream, but strangely, it was Cerin's favorite spot.
"Help us out, will you?" Mike said, placing down a warm box of fried buns.
Cerin glanced at it, didn't respond. He removed his earbuds but still didn't meet their eyes.
Kuro spoke first. "About the other day... we didn't expect Halden to react that fast. Looks like we've been watched from the start."
Cerin stayed quiet for a moment, then sighed. "He didn't just react fast. He knew exactly what you two were chasing."
Mike nodded. "That's why... we need you."
He passed over a sample report form, the internal research template. It had sections for experiment info, data summaries, hypothetical energy models, and access tiers.
"We can't record the truth. But if we lie, Halden'll know right away."
Cerin finally looked up. His eyes weren't cold, more like they were weighing the shape of their intent.
"I'll help. But one condition," he said, voice low.
"What condition?" Kuro asked.
"Send me your signal-tracker schematics."
Kuro and Mike exchanged looks. Mike shrugged.
"Fair trade," Mike said.
"It's not about trade," Cerin replied. "Your device is way more stable. I've tried recreating it, no luck."
The next day, the three of them gathered in a temporary-access lab in Sector C.
"What are you putting under 'Experiment Objective'?" Mike asked.
Cerin didn't reply immediately. He typed:
"Microscale deviation assessment of upper electromagnetic layers in low-vegetation field zones."
Kuro raised an eyebrow. "So... that's exactly what we're doing?"
"No," Cerin said, "but it's just enough to avoid red flags. We're not lying, we're adjusting the resolution."
He kept typing:
"Equipment used: Class-3 sensors (licensed), public-domain domestic maps, and an internal waveform processor."
"Planned analysis: duration of oscillation post-physical feedback, with no biological interference."
Mike nodded, nearly whistled. "If we still get flagged, this system's eating itself."
Cerin hovered over the submit button, but didn't click. He opened another tab and passed it to Kuro.
"A separate version. Encrypted. Contains the real data. Stored under my name, your names don't appear."
"Thanks," Kuro whispered.
Mike leaned back, eyes on the blinking sensor light above.
"That's done," he said, voice loosened by relief. "At least now they've no official reason to block us."
No one answered, but they all knew: this wasn't an end. It was prelude.
Cerin was the first to break the silence.
"If we don't return better prepared, everything we find will be dismissed as coincidence. And if something does happen... I believe someone out there already knows, and is looking for us."
Kuro nodded slowly. He didn't want to repeat the collapse they'd faced last time. The memory of the sink, of their bodies crumpling in that dreamlike void, still haunted him.
"Tell your family you're going camping," Kuro said, gaze direct. "Two days. Share a route, map, everything. If your dad doesn't hear from you in 48 hours, he'll come looking."
Cerin was quiet, then nodded. "Okay."
They prepared better than ever. Beyond tents and usual gear, Mike modified the sensor array himself, added a new filter, and most importantly, a kill switch that could instantly transmit a signal. They brought anti-nausea pills, headache tablets, and a thermal visor Cerin recommended.
All three took the meds before departure.
They stopped the electric trike just outside the ridge, a hidden spot where the trail narrowed to a single line. The trike, borrowed from the technical center, was camouflaged under a tarp. Cerin checked the sensors. Mike secured his biometric band. Kuro adjusted the food and water packs.
"Fifteen minutes on foot," Cerin said, pointing at the energy grid he'd mapped.
They walked in silence, shoes crunching dry leaves. The air felt taut, like a stretched string. Mike's eyes darted across the canopy, and paused as a flock of white birds flew overhead, completely silent.
The place had awakened. Birds chirped. Grass glowed. Silver-winged butterflies drifted past.
Last night's rain had softened the earth. The hollow felt unusually clear today. As they crossed the threshold, the first thing they noticed was, life.
"Those trees," Mike whispered. "Last week it was just scrubland here."
Now, everything pulsed, like the forest was... greeting them.
Following Kuro's redrawn field sketches, Cerin navigated. Magnetic spirals. Seismic breaks. One sunken trough that Mike had marked.
They avoided The Hollow's outer ring. No more blind stumbling. Cerin sensed the weighted silence. Not passive, pressurized. As if the land itself remembered something.
"What exactly happened last time?" Cerin whispered.
Mike paused. "You don't remember? Kuro and I got pulled into an extreme energy imbalance. Devices failed. Our minds... lost all sense of time."
Kuro said nothing. He just stared toward the central standing stone.
Cerin nodded, still uncertain.
"Will you come with me to its edge?" he asked.
Kuro turned. "We can," he said flatly. "But don't be too curious."
They reached the ridge. From here, they could see the site clearly. Still. Silent. But undeniably... waiting.
Two hours passed in absolute focus.
They cataloged carved symbols, energy residue, soil moisture, and radiation gradients. Cerin swept grooves in the stones with a soft brush. Mike studied the angles.
"This looks... like a map," Mike muttered. "Not terrain, but a schematic."
Below one slab, Kuro found another flat stone, moss-covered. When they flipped it, they saw a script no one recognized: rhomboids, wave lines, and an eye crossed by three slashes.
None understood, but none could look away.
Kuro slipped it into his bag. They mapped coordinates, recorded thermal footage, Cerin took multi-angle photos.
"If anyone can decipher this," Cerin muttered, "it's Professor Inar in Ancient Semiotics. He's written about non-standard glyph systems."
Mike nodded. "We can fake it as an archaeology project, or just tell half the truth."
Silence followed.
Time flowed differently here. Light speckled the ground in gold patches. Wind stirred flower petals that brushed their skin like breath from a forgotten age.
"We need to cross-plot these coordinates," Mike murmured. "Might form a pattern."
"A lattice," Cerin said. "Or... a circle."
Kuro looked up at the fading light. He didn't speak. He placed a hand on his pack, feeling the weight of the stone inside, silent, but pressing like an untold story.
They stood.
Though their bodies sagged, something inside had solidified. This journey wasn't ending.
It was only beginning.
All readings stable.
That's what lulled them.
Then sleepiness came, not heavy, but like mist in the eyes.
None spoke. The drowsiness wasn't normal. It drifted behind their ears like whispered wind.
Cerin blinked. Mike reached for soft music but his fingers trembled.
Kuro stood, then wavered, hand to forehead.
A sound.
Soft. Metallic. Like wind brushing chains.
Then Mike collapsed. Boneless.
Cerin turned, startled, and his vision dimmed. His knees buckled.
Kuro tried calling out, but his voice snagged in his throat. Vision twisted, trees receding, light distorting, soil turning to liquid.
He reached forward, then everything tilted. And turned off.
Three experiences.
Cerin in a round wooden room. A stone table. Ten silent elders. One crying apprentice clutching a notebook. A phrase cut mid-sentence:
"If you choose to keep, "
Smudged ink.
Thin lines of energy rippled from the notebook, from eyes around the table.
Mike stood on a desolate hill beneath a black-metallic sky. A masked figure scrambled to send a signal. No reply.
They wrote into the dirt:
"NOT RANDOM. THEY KNOW."
Removed the mask, revealing a spinning void.
Then laughed. Or wept.
Invisible waves spread from them. Urgent. Like a final message.
Kuro floated.
Not on land. In light.
Colors: violet, memory. Blue, remembrance. Silver, release.
Before him, a being shaped of waves moved its hands, weaving spirals.
Each carried whispers.
Thousands of voices. None in any known tongue.
"Can the future be stopped?"
"Some are too selfish."
"Some things even we cannot change."
No words followed. Only pulsing light and Kuro's heartbeat, no longer his own.
Mike and Cerin awoke groggy, ears ringing. The sky was bright.
Nearby, Kuro knelt, encircled by wind. Light warped around him. Leaves hovered mid-air.
"Not good," Cerin croaked.
Mike yanked cords. "Killing signal. It's overloading."
Kuro didn't move. Eyes closed. Wind tugged at him. Sweat glistened on his brow.
Silver light streamed upward like bleeding starlight.
Mike dared not enter the vortex. He knelt just outside.
"If you can hear me... I'm not leaving," he whispered.
Time held its breath.
The wind loosened. Light receded. Grass bowed. Sound returned.
Kuro collapsed. Mike caught him. Cerin scanned.
"He's okay... but needs rest."
Kuro's lips moved. "...Still here."
When the sun rose fully, they sat beneath the old tree. Sweat dried.
Silence wasn't relief. It was reverence.
Cerin reopened the energy chart. Mike reviewed the thermal shots. Kuro stared at his palm, still feeling the pulse of a wave.
Nearby, a symbol shimmered on stone.
Not carved.
Emerged.
As if the stone itself remembered.