In the depths of the Russian wilderness, far from the eyes of any map, lay a facility known only to a select few—an ominous, hidden place where shadows whispered of cruel intentions and dark deeds. Above ground, it appeared deceptively simple: a walled-off military compound, indistinguishable from countless others scattered across the vast Russian landscape. Barbed wire curled menacingly along its perimeter, while watchtowers stood like silent sentinels, their guards ever vigilant, rifles gleaming under the cold Russian sun.

But the true heart of this place lay deep below the earth, buried beneath layers of concrete and secrecy. Here, the complex spread like a web, an underground labyrinth of laboratories, prison cells, testing grounds, and training areas. Corridors stretched endlessly, bathed in the dim, sterile light that flickered uncertainly, as if afraid of what it might reveal. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, blood, and fear—a chilling blend that clung to every surface.

This was a place where ethics were discarded, where science was wielded as a weapon, and where human beings were broken and rebuilt, reshaped into weapons of war. Since the 1950s, they had trained and experimented on those deemed worthy of their brutal methods, pushing the boundaries of human potential far beyond what was once thought possible. Here, soldiers were stripped of their humanity, molded into something colder, harder, and infinitely deadlier.

They called it Baba Yaga’s Hut, a fitting name for a place that had become a living nightmare, a den of monsters and madmen where mercy was a myth and escape, an impossible dream. The secrets it held were locked away in the minds of those who ran it, a select cadre of scientists, generals, and spies, all bound by a shared understanding—an understanding that whatever happened in Baba Yaga's Hut stayed buried, just like the facility itself, deep beneath the surface.

The sound of boots echoed through the dimly lit corridor, a harsh staccato rhythm that reverberated off the cold, concrete walls. Dr. Irina Sokolov, a Russian scientist with steel-gray hair tied back in a severe bun, walked with purpose, her clipboard clutched tightly in her gloved hands. Her sharp eyes flicked over each cell door as she passed, barely acknowledging the two Spetsnaz troopers flanking her. Their faces were expressionless beneath their black balaclavas, rifles slung over their shoulders, their presence a silent warning to anyone who might dare to challenge the authority she wielded here.

Cell 01. Empty. Cell 02. Empty. Cell 03. Empty.

Each cell was a dark void, its interior obscured by shadows, its metal door sealed tight. The air was heavy with an unsettling stillness, broken only by the occasional drip of water from somewhere unseen, the distant hum of machinery that seemed to vibrate through the floor. Dr. Solokov’s heels clicked with a steady, measured pace as she continued down the row, her pen tapping absently against the clipboard.

Cell 04. Empty. Cell 05. Empty. Cell 06. Empty.

Her brow furrowed as she noted the emptiness. This wing was supposed to be occupied, its cells filled with subjects—special projects, each one unique, each one vital to the research she had dedicated her life to. But now, they were gone, vanished like smoke in the wind.

Cell 07. Empty. Cell 08. Empty.

Dr. Sokolov stopped before the last cell—Cell 09. Unlike the others, this door was reinforced, its surface covered in thick, riveted steel. A small, barred window sat at eye level, but no light penetrated the darkness beyond it. This cell was different. This one had always been different.

She drew a breath, steadying herself, and glanced at the two troopers. They exchanged a brief, wordless nod, and one of them stepped forward, gripping the door handle, ready to slide open the viewing panel.

Inside, she could barely make out the figure huddled in the corner. Even in the shadows, she could feel the presence of something… dangerous. The occupant of Cell 09 had never been like the others. She was a reminder of what this place had once created, of what still lurked beneath its surface—a harbinger of the terrible things created in Baba Yagas Hutt.

Inside, she could barely make out the human-sized figure huddled in the corner. Even in the shadows, she could feel the presence of something… dangerous. The occupant of Cell 09 was the only successful survivor of Project Legend, Dr. Sokolov's experiment that began nearly twenty years ago.

She cleared her throat and tapped the metal with her pen, the sound sharp and jarring in the silence. “Subject Nine,” she said, her voice firm. “Are you ready for your exercise today?”

The being huddled in the cell was far from the monsters that many whispered about in Baba Yaga's Hutt. She was a young woman, barely in her late teens, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs as if trying to shield herself from the cold concrete walls. She wore the standard-issue Russian prison jumpsuit, identical to the ones all residents of Baba Yaga's Hutt wore if they were not deemed fully loyal. Her head was shaven—a practical measure to prevent lice—but if her hair had been allowed to grow, it would have formed a black and purple-streaked mane. Only a few tufts of short black hair remained now.

What truly set Subject Nine apart was her vibrant purple skin, the curling ram’s horns jutting from her forehead, and the long tail that flicked listlessly behind her. She looked up slowly from the depths of her despair, her all-too-human eyes—a soft, pale blue—held a haunted depth that stood in stark contrast to her demonic appearance.

The doctor tilted her head, observing the teenage girl with the detached, clinical interest one might reserve for a lab rat. "Come now, Nine," she said, her voice cold and unfeeling. "If you don't cooperate, we'll have to reduce your rations again. You remember how it felt to starve, don't you?"

Nine, the only name she had ever known, nodded slowly, a flicker of resignation crossing her face. She forced herself to stand, every muscle in her body tensing with the effort. She despised this place—the endless tests, the drugs they injected into her veins that plunged her into spirals of terror-filled hallucinations, the experiments that tore at her mind and body. But most of all, she loathed the woman in the lab coat, who was the closest thing she had ever known to a mother and yet the source of all her pain and fear.

Nine stepped forward, moving with a resigned, mechanical precision that came from years of routine. She knew the drill well—too well. The guards approached her with the familiar collar and shackles, securing them around her neck and wrists. The cold metal bit into her skin, a sensation she had grown accustomed to. Once restrained, they led her along behind the doctor, the jangling of her chains echoing in the cold, sterile corridor.

As they passed by the row of empty cells, her eyes drifted over each one. These cells had once been occupied by her adopted siblings—the other children of Project Legend. They were like her, the "Extras," children born with pwoers who in this case, as the doctor had so clinically explained, had their human genetics "compromised" by supernatural ancestry. In simpler terms, they were the sons and daughters of monsters, hybrids with traces of demons, faeries, or other mythical beings in their veins. For a time, they had been her only friends in this cold, unforgiving place.

But one by one, they disappeared. No one had ever told her why or where they had gone. At first, she had hoped they were being released, sent back to some semblance of a normal life. But as she grew older, the truth became impossible to ignore: they had failed some test, some procedure meant to enhance the powers they were born with. And in Baba Yaga's Hutt, failure was never forgiven.

The Doctor's voice carried an edge of cruel amusement as they walked, her heels clicking against the concrete floor, echoing through the dimly lit corridor. "I’m always surprised that, of all the batch, the runt of the litter has proven the most resilient," she continued, her tone light, almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather.

Nine kept her eyes forward, her expression carefully neutral. She had heard this line a thousand times, the carefully chosen words meant to cut into her, to undermine whatever sense of self-worth she might have dared to build. It was a game to them—an exercise in breaking her spirit. But she had learned over time to let the words wash over her, like cold water against stone. She could not afford to let them see her flinch.

"Hard to believe such a find was just waiting for us at the hospital in Leningrad," the Doctor continued, her voice dripping with mockery. "We’re fortunate the nightmare demon who birthed you had no love for a half-human thing and tried to exchange you for a human child."

Nine's jaw tightened, her fingers flexing against the restraints. The story had been repeated to her many times, a reminder of her supposed worthlessness, of the mother who had abandoned her. The irony of it all—the very reason she had survived, the reason she was still here while the others were gone, was because of her mother's hatred, not her love.

And yet, despite herself, a flicker of anger ignited in her chest. The Doctor had never met her mother. None of them had. She was a story, a shadow, a myth they used to keep her in line. A nightmare they wielded against her like a weapon.

The Doctor glanced down at her clipboard, her expression as unreadable as always, before continuing down the cold, sterile corridor. "A shame we never found the human girl the demon stole," she mused, as if discussing a lost possession rather than a stolen child. "But the sacrifice of a human life brought you to us, and you will more than make up for that price."

Nine's fingers tightened into fists at her sides, the cuffs biting into her wrists. She hated that word—sacrifice. As if the life of some innocent child was just a currency for their twisted experiments. As if her own existence was nothing more than compensation for a theft she had no part in.

She remained silent, her mind a storm of thoughts she dared not voice. She knew what awaited her in the testing chamber, the needles, the probes, the endless series of tasks and tortures designed to push her to her breaking point, to see just how far they could go before she shattered. She had always survived, always endured, and perhaps that was what they feared most about her—the strength they couldn't quite break, the spirit that wouldn't yield.

She had been the runt of the litter, the smallest, the one they thought wouldn’t last. And yet here she was, still standing, still fighting—because of him. Seven. The one they all believed was the strongest, the boy they called a Dhampir, her best friend, the first to steal a kiss from her. He had put his faith in her, had whispered to her in the dark hours of the night that she was strong, stronger than any of them knew. He had shared his dreams of freedom, of a life beyond these walls, of a world that wasn't defined by tests and cages. He had held her hand and promised her they would escape this place together, that they would see the sunlight not filtered through iron bars.

But Six months ago, Seven had disappeared like the others. She knew, deep down in the pit of her stomach, that he was dead. Gone, like the rest of them. She’d seen it in the doctor's eyes, in the way the guards had seemed almost relieved. Seven had been the threat they feared the most, the one they thought could never be controlled.

His death had done something to her, hardened her resolve, turned her fragile hope into something like steel. She had made a promise to him, whispered it to herself in the dead of night like a prayer: she would survive. She would escape. She would make them pay for what they had done to him, to her, to all of them.

She would not let them break her.

"Your abilities are growing stronger, Nine," the Doctor noted coldly, her eyes not even meeting Nine's as they walked. "One of the soldiers reported hearing you crying in his sleep. That’s a ten-meter increase in the range of your sleep empathy. We’ll need to isolate you further from the barracks."

Nine felt a surge of mixed emotions—pride and fear tangled together in her chest. Her powers were growing, she knew it, but with every step forward came tighter constraints, harsher punishments, and more invasive tests. She could feel the Doctor's cold satisfaction radiating off her, like a butcher admiring a prized cut of meat. She hated it.

The Doctor continued, "We can't have you affecting morale with your little outbursts. This is progress, but uncontrolled progress is dangerous. We will have to take more precautions with you."

Nine clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Every step, every new development in her abilities, only seemed to tighten the chains they had around her. But she couldn't let them see her fear. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

"If things continue to progress," the Doctor continued, her tone clinical and devoid of emotion, "you will become a valuable asset to us—a weapon capable of stealing secrets, assassinating targets in their sleep, or leaving them crippled with fear. Of course, that is once you are properly conditioned to serve."

Nine's stomach twisted at the words. A weapon. That’s all she was to them—a tool to be honed, a blade to be sharpened, until she was sharp enough to cut through whatever enemies they pointed her toward. She bit down hard on her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. They talked about conditioning, but she knew they meant breaking her will, bending her mind until she was theirs to command.

Her eyes flickered to the side, catching the gaze of one of the Spetznaz soldiers. He quickly looked away, a flash of discomfort on his face. Even the hardened soldiers feared what they didn’t understand, feared what she could become.

But she also knew fear was a two-way street. And she was no longer just a frightened girl; she was something they had created, something they were losing control over with every new inch of power she discovered. She was their mistake, their living nightmare, and one way or another, she would make them regret it.

What they didn’t know, what they couldn’t know, was her secret weapon. She and Seven had spent months practicing their powers on each other in secret, hidden from the watchful eyes of the doctors and guards. They had learned, slowly and painfully, what they were truly capable of—what they could accomplish with a little bit of trust, a little bit of courage, and a lot of determination. Seven had been her mentor, her closest friend, and her guide through the darkness of this place. They had sworn to each other that they would find a way out, that they would never let this place destroy them. And now, without him, she clung to that promise as if it were the last light in a long, dark tunnel.

Now, Nine just needed to wait for the right time, the right moment to make her move.

The Doctor’s voice broke through her thoughts, falsely warm with a thin veneer of maternal pride. "You know, it's not so bad," she continued, almost as if trying to console Nine. "Once the conditioning is complete, you'll be an elite soldier, given a life many would envy. Provided you complete your missions, you will be rewarded richly. I almost feel like a proud mother, preparing to watch her daughter graduate."

Nine's lips twitched, not quite forming a smile. A life others would envy? She doubted that. She had seen what happened to the "graduates" from this place, those who had come before her. They were ghosts, hollowed out and filled with nothing but obedience, and she was determined not to become one of them. The Doctor spoke of rewards, but all Nine could hear were chains.

"You will be my greatest creation," Doctor Solokov continued, her voice swelling with self-satisfaction. "The weapon that will set Mother Russia as a world power to be truly feared!"

Nine kept her gaze steady, her face a mask of indifferent calm. She knew this game well—knew the Doctor's tactics by heart. It was always the same dance: carrot and stick, stick and carrot. Promises of reward and hints of affection, quickly followed by threats and punishment. A constant push and pull meant to break her spirit, to mold her into the perfect tool. Doctor Solokov thought she was in control, that she had crafted an illusion of victory that would compel Nine to obey, to fuel her own overblown ego.

But Nine had learned the rules of this twisted game long ago. She knew when to play along and when to resist in silence. She had survived this long not by giving in, but by pretending to. The Doctor had no idea what was coming.

Nine felt her heart skip a beat as they reached the lift, knowing today was her chance. The yard — a rare glimpse of the world outside, a place where she could see the sky, feel the air, and maybe, just maybe, seize the opportunity she had been waiting for. She kept her expression neutral, not daring to reveal even the slightest hint of what she felt inside.

Doctor Solokov continued, her tone dripping with mockery. "You are quite lucky, Nine. A monster born like you… if you had been discovered by the parents of that poor girl you replaced, they would have stabbed you to death with iron knives, like in the old tales of changeling bastards."

The words stung, but Nine didn’t flinch. She had heard worse — much worse. She had learned to take every jab, every cruel word, and bury it deep where it couldn't reach her. She knew the Doctor was trying to provoke her, to make her feel like nothing more than a twisted mistake of nature, something that should have been snuffed out long ago.

But today, she had other plans. As the lift doors creaked open and she caught the first hint of fresh air, Nine felt the tiniest flicker of hope. Today, she might just begin to burn those bridges behind her.

The lift groaned as it ascended, the heavy chains pulling them slowly upward toward the surface. Nine felt a cold sweat forming at the base of her neck. She kept her eyes on the floor, but inside, her thoughts raced.

“Soon, my little Nine, you will be parting ways with us for Moscow,” Doctor Solokov continued, her voice carrying a sickly sweet tone of anticipation. “Just a few more months, maybe a year, and you’ll enter the final stages of your conditioning.”

Nine clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She knew exactly what "conditioning" meant. She had seen the labs where they took the others, the rooms with thick glass walls, where they strapped you down, forced your eyes open, and bombarded you with flashing lights, sounds, and images — all while a steady stream of drugs flooded your veins. It was brainwashing in its most brutal form, stripping away every thought, every dream, every ounce of individuality until there was nothing left but a hollow shell, a puppet ready to obey.

The lift continued its slow, agonizing climb, the walls vibrating with the mechanical hum. Nine could almost see it in her mind’s eye — the lab, the restraints, the cold, lifeless faces of those who had gone through it and come out on the other side… different. Broken. She couldn’t let that happen to her. She had to act now, while she still had her mind, her will.

The lift slowed, and Nine felt her heart pounding in her chest. She knew her time was running out. She had to find a way to escape before they reached the surface — before they took away her last chance to be free.

The Yard was a bleak, unforgiving expanse, a place that seemed to mock the very idea of freedom. It was the only glimpse of the outside world that Nine or any of Project Legend had ever known — and it was nothing more than a harsh, open-air prison. Concrete paths cut through barren dirt, lined with rusted exercise equipment and brutal obstacle courses designed to test their physical limits. Faded white lines marked the ground where drills were conducted, a stark contrast to the cold steel walls that encircled the area.

High above, sniper towers loomed like vultures perched and waiting, their dark silhouettes cutting against the overcast sky. The guards within them stood ready, fingers poised on triggers, ever vigilant, ever prepared to pull the trigger on anyone who dared to stray too close to the fences — fences topped with razor wire that stretched into the horizon, a constant reminder that escape was a dream not worth having.

Nine's eyes flicked upward for a split second, taking in the distant figures in the towers. She could feel their eyes on her, could sense the cold steel of their rifles tracking her every move. This place, this yard, was her battleground. She had spent countless hours here, running through the obstacle courses, lifting weights, fighting against fellow "subjects," all while under the watchful eyes of the guards and the ever-present threat of a bullet.

But today was different. Today, she had a plan.

As they led her out into the yard, she felt the familiar crunch of gravel beneath her boots. The shackles around her wrists and ankles were heavy, clinking with each step. Her mind was racing through every possibility, every variable. She had memorized the patrol patterns, the rotation of the guards in the towers, the timing of the shift changes — every detail that could give her even the slightest edge.

She just needed to wait for the right moment.

Doctor Solokov’s voice broke through her thoughts. "Let's see what you've learned, Nine," she said, a faint smirk on her lips as she gestured toward the obstacle course. "Show us your progress."

Nine nodded slowly, her expression carefully neutral. She glanced at the course, her eyes darting from the high wall to the balance beams, the tire runs to the barbed wire crawl. She had done this a hundred times before. But today, it wasn't just a test. Today, it was her chance.

The guards undid her restraints, and Nine relaxed as the collar and shackles came off. The doctor smiled with a false sweetness. "Well now, don't be afraid, my dear girl. Show us what you can do."

Nine had waited for this moment. "Spiders," she said calmly.

The two guards furrowed their brows in confusion, but Dr. Sokolova's face paled. Her grip tightened on her clipboard, her knuckles turning white.

“How… how do you know that?” The doctor’s voice quivered, a tremor of fear that Nine had never heard before.

Nine flicked her tail slowly, savoring the feeling of control, and repeated the word with more conviction. "Spiders."

She focused her thoughts, and with an effort of will, opened tiny portals between the dreamscape and the real world. A swarm of horrors erupted around Dr. Sokolov—no ordinary spiders, but manifestations of pure fear. They were the sum of all the doctor’s nightmares, every horrid thing she could imagine from every species of arachnid, combined into the ultimate eight-legged terror.

Dr. Sokolov screamed, her voice high and shrill as she tried to swat them away, her hands trembling as they tore through her lab coat, tiny fangs sinking into her skin. "Get them off me! One of you, get them off me!"

The guards raised their AK-47s, shouting commands at Nine to stand down. The spiders were no illusion—what Nine summoned was real, pulled from the nightmare realm into existence. One guard turned, his face pale, unsure of how to help the doctor.

Nine whispered a single word: "Wolves."

The air around her shimmered as another portal opened, and a massive black wolf leapt through, its eyes burning with a hungry yellow light. Its mane was like a shadow made solid, its fangs long and sharp. The guard who had been aiming his gun at her panicked, his childhood fear of wolves crashing back into him. He opened fire, but the bullets seemed to tear through shadows, never finding flesh.

The wolf lunged, a monstrous blur of darkness and fury. Its howl cut through the air, a bone-chilling sound that seemed to echo off the walls. The guard’s hands shook, his eyes wide as he watched his bullets disappear into the creature’s dark form.

The second guard hesitated, paralyzed by fear. His training told him to shoot, to eliminate the threat, but his instincts screamed at him to run, to turn and flee from this nightmare come to life. The doctor’s frantic, choked sobs filled his ears, a desperate, maddening sound.

“Stand down, Nine! Stand down!” he shouted, his voice breaking. He raised his rifle, aiming for Nine’s chest, hoping a single, well-placed shot could end this.

But Nine didn’t stand down. Her eyes were fierce, a spark of determination glowing within them. She had waited for this, prepared for this. Her body tensed like a coiled spring, and before the guard could react, she moved with a speed and  inhumanly agile that defied human ability.

Her hands found the barrel of the gun, jerking it upward just as the guard pulled the trigger. A deafening crack split the air, and the bullet went wide, ricocheting off the steel walls. Nine twisted, her tail snapping around the guard’s wrist like a whip, pulling him off balance.

He stumbled, and in that moment, Nine wrenched the rifle from his grasp, swinging it around. The butt of the weapon connected with the side of his head with a sickening thud, and the guard crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Nine turned her gaze to Dr. Sokolov, who was still flailing, trying to swat away the spiders that crawled over her skin. Her screams had turned to pitiful, breathless whimpers, and her clipboard lay forgotten on the ground, trampled in her frenzy.

Nine stepped forward, her expression cold and calculating. She stood over the woman who had tormented her for years. "This is for Seven," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but full of venom.

Dr. Sokolov’s eyes widened as recognition dawned through the haze of panic. “Please... don’t…” she managed to choke out, her voice raw with fear.

Nine crouched down, her face inches from the doctor’s. “You took everything from us,” she whispered. "You are just lucky I don't have time to make you pay in full."

The air around her seemed to shimmer and crackle with dark energy as Nightmare Nine began to fade, swallowed by the unseen world she could slip between like a shadow in the night. A sudden clap, like thunder, filled the yard, and where she had stood, there was only empty air. Sniper shots hit the ground where her feet had been a moment earlier, striking nothing but dirt and stone.

Nine had learned to jaunt through the very nightmare realm that tethered her powers, a trick she had perfected alongside Seven. She could leap through shadows and dreams, but only if she could see where she was going. Here, outside, with the wide expanse of the yard before her, a whole world of possibilities was open.

There was a crackle and a dim, dark flash of energy in one of the sniper towers. Nine reappeared, her tail wrapping tightly around a rifle. With a swift motion, she yanked the sniper off his feet and sent him flying over the edge of the tower. His partner fumbled to draw his sidearm, panic flashing in his eyes, but Nine was faster. She swept her hand through the air, and inky tendrils erupted from the shadows, wrapping around the man's limbs, pinning him against the cold metal of the tower's frame.

Nightmare Nine, trained since birth to be their perfect weapon, was no stranger to firearms. The sniper rifle felt like an extension of her arm as she transferred it smoothly into her grip. She looked through the scope and, with calm precision, fired a single shot. Across the yard, another sniper fell, slumping over the edge of his post. She dropped the rifle without hesitation, knowing the guards would soon recover from their shock.

Then, with another thunderous crack of displaced air, she was gone again, slipping into the unseen world that was both her sanctuary and her weapon.

The soldiers below were scrambling into action, the compound now a hive of frantic activity. She could see them moving, hear the barked orders as they attempted to regroup and regain control. Down below, the Doctor was already being dragged to safety, her screams fading into panicked, desperate cries for help. Nine couldn't tell if they would get the antidotes to her in time, but she found herself hoping they wouldn't. Still, she couldn't afford to dwell on that now.

She had bigger concerns.

From her vantage point atop the water tower, she scanned the landscape beyond the compound’s walls—the deep forests stretching out like a sea of dark green, and the jagged mountains looming in the distance. Freedom was out there, but it felt so far away. She needed to get a clear look, to fix her mind on a destination. She had never jaunted this far before, and she knew the risks. The longer the distance, the longer she would have to touch that terrible other realm.

The realm between—the place of nightmares—was both her gift and her curse. Every time she touched it, she felt the cold seep into her bones, heard the strange whispers, and sensed the shadows stretching out as if to hold her, to keep her there. It terrified her, a darkness that seemed alive, always hungry, always reaching for her.

Nightmare Nine took a deep breath, forcing herself to steady her nerves. She focused her eyes on the forest, letting the shapes, the lines, and the way the light played off the dark, primeval woods burn into her memory. She could feel the pull of the other realm, like a hand at the back of her mind, trying to drag her back into its cold, insidious embrace. She had to make this leap count; there would be no second chances.

But before she escaped, she needed to create one final distraction. She inhaled deeply and extended her senses into the minds of those around her, searching for the buried fears and terrors she could draw upon. She found none that suited her purpose, but she had a backup plan. The drugs they had pumped into her body for years had forced her to hallucinate and dream terrible visions; her life had been a constant barrage of fear. When there was no fear to tap into from others, she could always draw upon the vast library of horrors they had inflicted upon her.

A dark blue and purple fire erupted from nowhere, cold and otherworldly, spreading across the canvas of the compound. It branched and spread, hungry and consuming—fire, one of humanity’s oldest fears, now twisted into something even more terrible. It struck a primal chord within the soldiers and scientists below. They screamed, reacting instinctively, their fear feeding the blaze. The fire roared to life, its flames forming wicked faces that twisted and shifted, howling with the voices of the damned. The fear in their hearts was its oxygen, and their panic made the nightmare blaze rise higher, hotter, more menacing.

Nightmare Nine turned her focus to the forest, her next target. If they gave chase, she would use the ancient trees and the shadows beneath the thick canopy to her advantage. The forest was old and filled with secrets—its darkness would give her more weapons, more ways to fight.

She took a step between worlds, feeling the nightmare realm wrap around her like a suffocating shroud. Cold, shadowy things caressed her mind, whispering for her to stay with them, to let go, to surrender. She was only half-demon, and it was her human side they craved—the part of her they hungered for.

Nine clenched her teeth, feeling the cold fingers of the nightmare realm brush against her consciousness. The voices whispered, soft and insidious, tempting her to stay, to surrender to the dark comfort they offered. The air felt thick, almost alive, pressing against her like invisible hands trying to drag her deeper into the shadows. Her breath quickened, fear clawing at her heart, but she forced herself to focus on the image of the forest—a distant, unreachable sanctuary that promised freedom.

Shapes took form in the shadows around her, shifting and twisting, impossible figures that defied logic and reason. Faces flickered in and out of existence, some familiar, some not—ghosts of the fears she had touched in the minds of others, and her own. Echoes of screams, the crackling of flames, and distant sounds of battle mingled into a cacophony that threatened to drown her.

"No," she whispered, pushing herself to move through the darkness. "I won't stay here.I wont exchange one prison for another!"

The cold intensified, the shadows clinging to her skin like a second, living layer, trying to seep into her very bones. But she didn’t slow. Her eyes remained fixed on the vision of the forest, the light filtering through the canopy, the promise of freedom just beyond her reach.

"For Seven," she repeated, louder this time, her voice echoing through the emptiness around her.

With a final surge of determination, she willed herself forward, tearing free from the nightmare realm’s grasp. The shadows resisted, clinging to her like tar, but she pushed harder, refusing to be pulled back. She felt the air change; the cold gave way to something warmer. The pressure eased as she broke through the barrier between worlds.

The forest exploded into view around her, the sudden onrush of light and color almost blinding after the darkness. She stumbled forward, her knees hitting the soft earth, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She felt the dampness of the soil, the coolness of the shade, the smell of pine and moss all around her.

She was out. She was free.

Looking up, she saw the towering trees stretching high above, their branches weaving together to form a thick canopy. The sound of distant birdsong reached her ears, a stark contrast to the chaos she had left behind. She had made it—she was in the forest now, far from the walls of Baba Yaga's Hutt.

But she knew better than to rest. They would come for her. They would not stop, but she wouldn't let them catch her—the little demon girl who had slipped through the cracks of Baba Yaga’s Hutt, a shadow in the forest, a nightmare on the run. She had tasted freedom now, and she would fight tooth and claw to keep it.