The leather corset dug into Wendy’s ribs with each shallow breath, the laces cinched tighter than anything she would have ever worn at home. The sleeves of the blouse scratched faintly at her arms, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar, clinging in all the wrong ways. She shifted, rolling her shoulders, but nothing loosened, nothing gave way. The seams pressed against her skin like a second body she had not chosen.

  Across from her, Pan lounged in his chair, his plate clean, his sharp elbows resting against the tabletop as he watched her—just watched her—with a lazy, expectant smirk. The steady weight of his gaze prickled against her skin, an unwelcome reminder that nothing about this moment was normal.

  Not the flickering candlelight that stretched the shadows too long.

  Not the mismatched silverware that gleamed like stolen relics.

  Not the way her stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from something worse.

  John. Michael. Every second she sat here was another second wasted.

  Her fingers traced the uneven edge of the table, catching on splinters, but she did not move her hand. She sat too still, her breath too measured, her spine too rigid—like a marionette waiting for a pull.

  The meal before her was rich, decadent. Thick slices of bread, fruit so ripe it nearly burst at the slightest pressure, something dark and roasted she refused to name. Her stomach ached with emptiness, but the moment she reached for the bread, her mind twisted against her. John’s hands, small and pale, gripping the edges of his coat, shivering in the mist. Michael’s voice, thin and frightened, calling for her through the dark.

  Her fingers hovered over the food before curling into a fist.

  What if they had not eaten?

  What if they were starving?

  What if they were alone, lost, dying while she sat here in stolen comfort?

  The ache in her belly curdled into something sharp, something unbearable. She let her hand drop. The food was warm, fragrant, but in her mouth, it was nothing. Every bite turned to ash on her tongue, heavy and flavorless, her body rejecting it before it even reached her throat.

  She should have been starving.

  But she wasn’t.

  The candlelight wavered. The flames leaned too far, stretching unnaturally long before snapping upright again, as if caught in a breath she could not hear. The shadows did not just flicker—they crawled, pooling in the corners like something waiting for her to look away.

  A draft slithered through unseen cracks in the walls, brushing over her skin with a damp, too-cold touch. The air smelled thickly of melted wax, spiced meat, and something metallic, something sharp, something wrong.

  Tinker hovered nearby, her silver wings rasping through the stillness in deliberate bursts, each movement slicing the air with the grating hiss of metal against metal. The sound scraped against Wendy’s nerves, setting her teeth on edge, as if the air itself disapproved of her hesitating.

  Across from her, Pan reclined in his chair with the lazy confidence of someone who had never known hunger, never been forced to wait. One arm draped over the back of his chair, the other idly playing with a knife, balancing it on the tip of his finger before flipping it into the air. He caught it effortlessly, his smirk never wavering. His golden-green eyes gleamed in the candlelight, sharp and amused, watching her with the air of someone watching a performance only he understood.

  “You eat like you’re already dead.” His voice was rich with lazy amusement.

  Wendy exhaled slowly, pressing her hands flat against the table, grounding herself in the rough texture of the wood. The heat of frustration burned beneath her skin, but she forced her voice to stay level.

  She swallowed another bite that tasted like nothing and pushed her plate aside.

  "I don’t care about food." The words were clipped, deliberate. "We need to go. We need to find John and Michael."

  Pan did not straighten.

  Did not sit forward.

  Did not even pretend to take her seriously.

  Instead, he stretched his arms above his head with a slow, satisfied sigh, arching his spine in a way that made his ribs shift beneath his shirt. His teeth flashed as he yawned, sharp as a fox’s.

  "We will," Pan murmured, his voice thick with drowsy indifference.

  Wendy’s fingers curled into fists against the table, the wood biting into her skin.

  Eventually was not an answer.

  It was an excuse.

  A sharp rasp of metal tore through the air as Tinker’s wings sliced through the stillness. She hovered just beyond Wendy’s shoulder, her small silver form taut with agitation.

  Pan barely flicked his gaze toward her before rolling his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know," he muttered, voice heavy with feigned suffering.

  Tinker clicked again—louder this time.

  Pan tossed his knife into the air with a flick of his wrist, watching the gleaming blade tumble end over end before catching it effortlessly. "Oh, please," he scoffed. "It’s not like I can just snap my fingers and summon the Jolly Roger. Hook doesn’t exactly leave a calling card."

  A vicious hiss erupted from Tinker, a sound like rusted gears grinding against stone. She darted closer, her wings flaring, her needle-like teeth bared.

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  Pan groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "Why do you care so much?" he whined. "It’s not like Hook is going anywhere."

  Another sharp metallic click.

  Pan’s smirk twisted into a scowl. "I hate dealing with the merfolk, Tink. They smell like bad luck and old bones."

  A lower, longer rasp.

  "Oh, shut up," Pan snapped, waving a lazy hand in her direction. "You smell like wet iron."

  Tinker shrieked, high and grating, a sound that rattled Wendy’s bones.

  Pan let out an exaggerated sigh and collapsed further into his chair, draping his arms over the armrests as if the weight of the conversation had physically exhausted him. "Yes, yes, let’s all blame me," he grumbled. "Like I am the problem here."

  A sharper, final click.

  Pan’s golden-green eyes gleamed with mock offense as he gestured toward Wendy. "Oh, right, of course. Everything was so much better before we had a cranky little mortal girl making demands.”

  Wendy’s stomach twisted. She could only hear Pan’s side of the conversation, but the growing tension in Tinker’s movements, the way her wings flared and shuddered with every word, told her enough.

  This was not just an argument about Hook.

  This was about her.

  She was the problem.

  And whatever Tinker was saying, whatever accusations she was hurling—

  Pan was not disagreeing.

  A slow, seething heat crawled up Wendy’s spine.

  Pan was sulking.

  She saw it now.

  The way he slumped in his chair, limbs sprawled, chin tilted in exaggerated suffering. The dramatic sighs, the half-hearted flick of his knife. His ears drooped slightly at the tips, his mouth curved in the most insufferable, put-upon frown—like a child forced to do chores he had no intention of finishing.

  And yet, he could finish them.

  He could act. He could do something. And he wasn’t.

  The realization hit her like ice water to the chest.

  He wasn’t waiting because it was impossible.

  He wasn’t waiting because they couldn’t go.

  He wasn’t waiting because he didn’t know how.

  He was waiting because he didn’t feel like it.

  Her breath stilled.

  John and Michael were out there.

  Alone.

  Afraid.

  Maybe bleeding.

  Maybe dying.

  Maybe—

  No.

  She refused to finish that thought.

  And yet, while her brothers were lost in this nightmare of a world, Pan sat lounging in his stolen throne, rolling his eyes at Tinker, playing games, dragging his feet because he could.

  Something inside Wendy snapped.

  The chair scraped violently against the floor as she shoved back from the table. The sharp sound cut through the thick, stagnant air like a blade.

  Her hands slammed down against the wood, rattling the mismatched silverware, the untouched plates, the candle that sputtered in its holder. The force of it vibrated up her arms, but she barely felt it.

  "Not wanting to is not good enough!"

  The words ripped from her, raw and sharp, fueled by fury that had been building since the moment she set foot in this place. Since the moment she realized nothing in this world had rules she understood. Since the moment Pan had grinned at her with all his sharp teeth and pulled her into something she never agreed to.

  Pan stilled.

  The lazy sprawl, the mock suffering, the bored amusement—gone in an instant.

  His golden-green eyes snapped to hers, locked onto her with a suddenness that stole the breath from her lungs. The smirk faded—just slightly, just for a fraction of a second.

  And Wendy did not care.

  She leaned forward, bracing herself against the table, her voice shaking with rage.

  “My brothers could be dying right now, and you are whining about not wanting to?”

  Her breath came too fast, too sharp, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

  Pan did not blink.

  Then, slowly, his smirk returned.

  But it was not lazy now.

  It was something else.

  Something sharp.

  Something hungry.

  A slow, curling grin unfurled across his face, stretching wide, stretching too wide. His fingers flexed against the armrest, his golden-green eyes gleaming with something electric, something alive.

  And Wendy knew.

  She had given him exactly what he wanted.

  It happened all at once.

  With one sweeping motion, he erased the table.

  Plates, cups, silverware—all of it gone, sent crashing to the floor in a careless arc. The food that had sat untouched splattered across the wooden planks, the heavy candle snuffing itself out as it rolled.

  Wendy barely had time to flinch before Pan moved.

  He vaulted over the table, clearing it with a terrifying, effortless ease, landing soundlessly right in front of her.

  Her breath caught.

  He was too close.

  The air between them vanished in an instant, stolen by his presence, by the sheer weight of him in her space. She barely had time to take a step back before his fingers caught her jaw.

  Not her wrist.

  Not something she could yank away from.

  His grip was firm, absolute, his fingers pressing into her skin—not hard enough to hurt, but with an iron finality that sent a shudder racing down her spine.

  He tilted her head, his golden-green eyes flickering over her face, searching. Inspecting.

  Like he was studying her.

  Like she was some strange thing he had just pulled from the depths of the Soul Deep.

  Wendy tried to jerk away, but his hold did not falter.

  His smirk stretched wider, slow and sharp, and when he spoke, his voice was low, humming with something thrilled.

  "Much better."

  A furious burst of metallic clicking erupted from Tinker.

  The sound was sharp, frantic—full of warning.

  Pan ignored her completely.

  His fingers lingered for just a moment longer before he let go, but even that was not freedom.

  Because the instant his hand left her face, the world tilted—his fingers catching her arm, his grip shifting, and then—

  He dragged her forward.

  Wendy gasped, stumbling to keep up, her feet barely finding purchase as Pan hauled her from the room.

  Tinker shrieked behind them, but Pan did not so much as glance back.

  The world unraveled beneath Wendy’s feet.

  Pan dragged her through the twisting corridors of his lair, the walls folding inward, shifting like living things as they descended. The wooden floors beneath her boots gave way to stone, rough and uneven, sloping downward in a path that had not been there before.

  The air thickened, growing heavy with the scent of damp earth and salt, the flickering glow of lanterns stretching their shadows impossibly long.

  And then—

  The world opened.

  The walls vanished, swallowed by the vastness beyond, and Wendy stumbled forward into the light.

  The wind hit her first.

  It tore through her hair, sharp and wild, carrying the scent of the sea and something older, something untamed.

  The cliff’s edge loomed mere steps away, its jagged stone slick with sea spray, its surface fractured like an old wound.

  Far below, the Soul Deep stretched in eerie stillness, its mist-laden waters curling against a crescent shore of black sand.

  And there, at the base of the cliff—

  The ferns.

  They spread in chaotic abundance, a riot of color bursting through the cracks where rock gave way to earth.

  Greens so deep they were almost black.

  Reds that bled like fresh wounds.

  Golds bright as burning embers.

  Purples that shimmered like spilled ink.

  They should not exist here.

  But they did.

  They were alive.

  Wendy stared, her breath catching in her throat.

  And then she felt him.

  Pan.

  Not his hands, not his breath—

  His presence.

  It crackled in the air, an unseen force brushing against her skin, humming beneath her ribs. A weightless pull, like the moment before a storm breaks, like the hush of the world before lightning splits the sky.

  She turned.

  He stood just behind her, barely an arm’s length away, watching her with eyes that gleamed too bright, too alive.

  And Wendy’s stomach twisted.

  She did not know why.

  She could not prove anything.

  But something was wrong.

  Pan smiled.

  "If you do not get it right the first time," he mused, voice rich with amusement, “the ferns are a soft place to land.”

  She barely had time to process the words before—

  He shoved her.

  Wind screamed past her ears.

  The sky and sea twisted, tilting as she fell.

  Above her, Pan’s laughter rang through the open air—

  Bright.

  Wild.

  Free.

  “Learn to fly, Darling!”