he Zippo felt unnaturally heavy in his hand, a dense, solid piece of a world he no longer belonged to. Its familiar heft was a comfort, a direct contradiction to the bizarre, alien weight of the Fire Salt packets in his pocket. The surface was cool and smooth, worn down by time and use. It was dented on one corner, a small, crescent-shaped imperfection that spoke of a life lived, of being dropped on pavement or knocked against a table.
He ran his thumb over the lid, the instinct to open it deeply ingrained. With a flick of his wrist, the lid snapped open with a familiar, iconic clink. The sound was sharp and clean, a tiny, perfect note of mechanical precision in the vast, droning symphony of the level. He stared at the wick, dry and white, and the empty flint wheel. He flicked his thumb across the wheel out of sheer habit. A spray of bright orange sparks erupted, bloomed for a fraction of a second in the dim, orange light, and died. No fluid. Of course.
He was about to snap it shut, to pocket it as a potential fire-starter and nothing more, when his thumb brushed against the side of the casing. He felt it before he saw it. A series of fine, shallow grooves scratched into the metal.
He turned the lighter over. His heart, which had been beating with a slow, cautious rhythm, stopped dead in his chest.
There, carved into the brushed steel with what was probably the tip of a pocketknife, were two letters. The carving was rough, amateurish, the lines slightly uneven. But the letters were unmistakable.
L. R.
Leo Ryder.
The world seemed to fall away. The distant hum of the machinery, the cold air, the throbbing pain in his shoulder and hip—it all vanished, replaced by a roaring, deafening silence in his head. He stared at the two letters, his vision blurring. It couldn't be. It was a coincidence. L.R. could stand for anything. Luke Roberts. Laura Reed.
But he knew. He knew with a certainty that transcended logic and probability. He knew the story of this lighter.
It had been their grandfather's. Leo had found it in a box of old things after he passed away and had become instantly obsessed with it. He'd spent a whole afternoon learning how to do Zippo tricks, the clink-snap of the lid echoing through the house, driving Alex crazy while he was trying to study. Alex remembered the day Leo had scratched his initials into it, sitting at the kitchen table, meticulously carving the letters with the tip of a Swiss Army knife.
"So no one can steal it," Leo had said, grinning.
"Who's going to steal a broken old lighter?" Alex had replied, ever the cynical older brother.
"It's not broken, it's classic," Leo had shot back, his eyes shining with pride.
The memory was so vivid, so painful, it was like a physical blow. Alex's hand began to tremble, the lighter rattling softly. He sank to the floor, his injured hip screaming in protest, but he didn't care. He just stared at the initials, his thumb tracing the shallow grooves over and over again.
This was not an echo. This was not a ghost. This was proof.
Cold, hard, undeniable proof.
Leo was here.
He had walked this same concrete floor. He had breathed this same oily air. He had rested in this very alcove. He had sat right here, in this dusty corner of a hellish, alternate dimension, and at some point, his grandfather's lighter had fallen from his pocket.
The implications of this discovery were seismic. They rearranged the entire landscape of Alex's reality, of his purpose. Until this moment, his quest had been a selfish one, driven by two primal goals: survive, and find a way out. Escape. Get back to the world he knew, the world that made sense. He had been chasing his own tail, a rat in a cage looking for the door.
Now, the door didn't matter.
Escape was no longer the primary objective. The quest was no longer about getting out. It was about going in. Deeper.
Leo hadn't just blundered into this place by accident. The journal had proved that. He had come here deliberately. And he hadn't died in Level 0. He had survived. He had made it to Level 1. He was moving, exploring, pushing forward. He was on a path.
Alex's guilt, the ever-present weight he had carried for a year, shifted its form. It was no longer a passive, crushing burden over a past mistake. It was an active, driving force. He hadn't just failed his brother in the past by mocking his obsession; he was failing him now, by being hours, or days, or weeks behind him.
He looked at the lighter clutched in his hand. It was more than just proof. It was a breadcrumb. It was a promise. Leo was ahead of him, somewhere in the vast, terrifying darkness of this place, and he was alone.
A fire ignited in Alex's chest, a hot, fierce resolve that burned away the last vestiges of his victimhood. He was no longer just a survivor. He was a hunter. He was a rescuer. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach. The pain was still a grinding reality in his bones. But now they were secondary. They were obstacles to be overcome, not conditions to be endured. He had a mission.
He snapped the lighter shut. The crisp clack echoed in the small alcove, a sound of finality. A decision made. He carefully placed the Zippo in the innermost pocket of his jacket, zipping it up, securing the precious artifact against his chest. It felt like he was pocketing a piece of his brother's soul.
He used his pipe to push himself back to his feet, his movements no longer hesitant and weak, but filled with a new, albeit pained, determination. He looked out from the alcove into the dim, sprawling expanse of Level 1. It was no longer just a hostile environment to be survived. It was a trail to be followed.
He didn't know where Leo was going, or why. He didn't know what dangers lay between here and there. He didn't know if his broken body could even carry him another mile.
None of it mattered.
His brother was here. And Alex would tear this reality apart, one concrete corridor at a time, until he found him.