The room had changed again.
Where once there had been walls and mirrors, now only a vast hallway stretched forward — narrow at first, then expanding into a massive stone corridor, walls lined with flickering torches that lit one by one as the boys stepped forward.
Louis was quiet.
Back — but not fully recovered.
He walked with his head slightly bowed, like he was still trying to make sense of what had happened in the false memory. The others didn't push him. There was a shared, unspoken understanding: the Watcher's tricks were getting smarter, sharper.
She was testing them now.
Not just their memories — but their trust in each other.
Zayn took the lead, CD case tucked tightly under one arm. Each track was more than a riddle; it was a weapon. The more they remembered, the more the Watcher seemed to unravel. But she wasn't done yet.
Not even close.
"Anyone else feel like we're walking straight into a trap?" Niall asked, voice hushed.
Liam glanced around. "We are."
"But we're ready this time," Harry said, his voice firmer than it had been in days. "We have Louis back. That's a start."
The hallway curved — just slightly — and then opened into a vast chamber.
The labyrinth.
Built entirely of polished obsidian and glass, its walls stretched high above them, crisscrossing in every direction. The ceiling vanished into smoke. The floor shifted beneath their feet, as if alive. Paths split ahead, leading in different directions — but none of them felt "right."
A soft hum began to rise.
Then a voice echoed from every direction.
"One path for each of you. No skipping ahead. No turning back. Only truth opens the way."
They froze.
The labyrinth lit up — five distinct paths, each one pulsing in a color that corresponded to them: red for Louis, blue for Liam, green for Harry, yellow for Niall, and silver for Zayn.
Roxy's voice — faint — echoed through the air.
"Be careful. This is where she breaks you… or where you break her."
They looked at each other.
Zayn: "We split up."
Liam: "We meet in the center."
Harry: "If one of us doesn't make it—"
Louis interrupted. "We all make it. Or none of this was worth it."
One last nod.
And then they stepped into their separate paths.
⸻
Niall's Path
The walls closed in fast. Old posters from his childhood room appeared — tour photos, scribbled lyrics, newspaper clippings. Then, without warning, the walls projected his parents' faces. His brother's. Then… the fans.
Their faces blurred. Distorted.
A voice whispered:
"You never believed you deserved them."
He swallowed. "That's not true."
"Isn't it? You always smiled the widest because you were afraid of being left behind."
The walls grew taller. The voices louder.
But in the center of the room appeared a guitar — battered, familiar.
His first.
He stepped forward. Picked it up.
Strummed a chord.
And the noise stopped.
Silence.
Light burst from the strings and carved open the path ahead.
Truth accepted.
⸻
Liam's Path
Liam stood in a long corridor lined with mirrors — but none showed his face. Just expectations. Newspaper headlines. "The Responsible One." "The Leader." "The Safe One."
They flashed like accusations.
Then:
"But who are you when they're not watching?"
He turned in a circle.
Mirrors cracked.
"Just Liam," he whispered.
The mirrors shattered.
All but one.
And in that final pane, he saw himself — tired, imperfect, but real.
The door opened.
⸻
Harry's Path
He walked into a bedroom.
His old bedroom.
Walls painted in soft tones, posters of Fleetwood Mac and Bowie still tacked up.
A closet door creaked open by itself.
Inside: the bakery uniform.
The one he'd worn in this false life.
Then the mirror showed him in that bakery again — laughing, serving customers. Genuinely happy.
The voice came again:
"What if this life was better?"
Harry frowned. "It was a lie."
"But the happiness was real."
He hesitated.
Then touched the apron.
It burst into gold dust in his hands.
"No truth in comfort," he said.
The path shifted, revealing the exit.
⸻
Louis' Path
His was silent.
Not mirrors.
Not voices.
Just a single room, with a notebook on a stool.
He opened it.
Lyrics he didn't remember writing spilled across the pages — raw, angry, vulnerable.
And one page, marked in red:
"You were never enough."
He stared at it.
Then tore the page out.
Wrote over it:
"I always was."
The room shuddered.
The walls crumbled.
Light flooded in.
⸻
Zayn's Path
Paintings hung along his corridor — all his own.
But the faces were blank.
Jenny appeared in one. Her eyes sad. Belly swollen.
A voice curled through the space:
"You abandoned her."
"No."
"You wanted freedom more than family."
He clenched his jaw. "I didn't know what I was giving up."
"You still don't."
He stepped forward.
Touched the painting of Jenny.
And whispered, "But I'll find my way back."
Her face filled in.
Smiling.
The canvas glowed — and so did the path.
⸻
The Center
One by one, they emerged.
Exhausted. Changed.
But whole.
And in the middle of the labyrinth stood a staircase — spiraling downward.
Liam was first to speak. "She wanted to break us."
Harry nodded. "But all she did was remind us."
Louis looked up at the twisting mirrors above them. "What now?"
A voice echoed — Roxy again.
"You're almost there. She's afraid now. She knows you remember."
Zayn looked down the staircase.
It pulsed.
Waiting.
"I think it's time we met her face-to-face."
Liam took the first step down.
Then Niall.
Harry.
Louis.
Zayn lingered for just a moment, then followed.
And behind them, the labyrinth shattered — mirrors collapsing in waves — and a scream of rage echoed through the dark.
The Watcher knew.
They were coming.