Book Five, Chapter 86: Familiar Fratricide

~Antoine~

The forest shifted again, the shapes of the trees melting into something both unfamiliar and known.

The air was full of energy, heavy with memories that weren’t mine—or weren’t fully mine. I stopped running, my massive chest heaving, and the wolf growled low in confusion. The world around me wasn’t the woods anymore. It was… something else.

I dug my claws into the dirt and put all my attention into what was before me.

A payphone stood just ahead, glowing faintly in the moonlight like a beacon. Beside it stood me. Or the slightly younger man I used to be, years older than the one hiding on the stairs. My younger self clutched the receiver tightly, his breath misting in the cold air as he spoke into the phone.

Strange. I almost remembered this as if it really happened, but this was all fiction.

“Christian?” Younger Me asked, his voice hesitant, hopeful. “It’s me.”

The voice on the other end was warm, welcoming, too perfect to be real. “It’s good to hear from you, Antoine. I wasn’t sure you’d call.”

Younger Me shuffled nervously, glancing over his shoulder like he expected someone to be watching. “I didn’t know if… you’d want me to after all these years.”

Christian laughed softly, the sound smooth as silk. “Of course I do. You’re my brother. I’ve missed you. Come out to the cabin on the lake I told you about. We can talk in person.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Carousel was recreating how I was lured to Carousel to find my brother, but a version for this storyline. The parallels were eerie.

The wolf inside me growled, restless and wary, but I couldn’t move. I could only watch as my younger self nodded, his hand tightening around the receiver.

“Okay,” Younger Me said. “I’ll be there.”

The scene blurred, the edges of the memory twisting and warping until I was standing outside a cabin deep in the woods. The younger version of me emerged from the shadows, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His movements were careful, deliberate.

He didn’t trust the place, and neither did the wolf.

The cabin was old and weathered, its wooden planks dark with moss. The windows were shattered, the glass glinting in the faint moonlight. The air smelled wrong—metallic and sharp, with the faintest undercurrent of decay. Younger Me paused at the door, his hand hovering over the handle.

This was the restricted cabin from Camp Dyer. Carousel was having fun with this. It liked to reuse props.

“I’m here,” the younger me called, his voice steady despite the tension in his posture. “Christian?”

The silence was deafening. Then, a low growl rumbled through the night. Younger Me turned just in time to see the first wolf emerge from the shadows. Its yellow eyes glinted, and its teeth gleamed like daggers.

Younger Me was ready.

He dropped the duffel and unzipped it in one swift motion, pulling out a long, gleaming knife. When the wolf lunged, he was already moving. His blade flashed, slicing through fur and flesh. The wolf yelped and fell, blood staining the dirt.

The blade stayed in the wolf. There were more blades where it came from.

More wolves came, too.

They emerged from the shadows like specters, their growls filling the air. Younger Me fought with precision and fury, his movements sharp and calculated. He was prepared for this.

This was my character. He had been raised as a monster hunter. He was ready.

I watched, my claws digging into the earth as I fought the urge to intervene. The wolf inside me wanted to leap into the fray, to tear into the attackers, but I couldn’t. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t now.

It was a memory—a memory that had been fabricated for the storyline. I was On-Screen.

One by one, the wolves fell. Younger Me stood panting in the center of the clearing, blood dripping from his seventh blade, smoke rising from the barrel of his gun.

And then, from the shadows, came the last wolf. It was larger than the others, its fur darker, its eyes brighter. It didn’t attack right away. It circled, slow and deliberate, its gaze locked on my younger self.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

The wolf lunged, and Younger Me moved on instinct. The knife plunged into its chest, and the wolf let out a pained howl before collapsing to the ground. Younger Me staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He dropped the knife, staring at the wolf’s lifeless body.

He called out for Christain in the darkness, not knowing where his brother was. Not knowing if the wolves had killed him.

Hours later.

The sun rose.

The fur receded from the wolves, and there he was—Christian. His eyes were open, empty, his face blank from death.

This wasn’t my real brother. They copied me but not him. Strange. Carousel had him. Why not use his body for this sick charade?

“No,” Younger Me said, his voice breaking. “No, no, no!”

The air around me thickened, the memory collapsing in on itself like smoke pulled into a void.

The wolf in my mind laughed, its voice sharp and cruel.

“You killed your own brother,” it said, the words echoing in my skull.

“No, I didn’t!” I tried to yell, but all that came out were roars.

That was the parallel. My character killed his brother.

I killed mine.

It was an accident. It was Project Rewind.

But I did it.

True guilt is deaf to reason. I was always suspicious of people who forgave themselves too easily.