They left the coffee shop behind, heading deeper into the grey-tinged streets.

  The husky trotted beside Maggie, occasionally glancing up at her with those bright, intelligent eyes. The eagle circled overhead, keeping watch.

  "So," Maggie said after a few minutes of walking. "Does he have a name?"

  "Who?"

  "The dog." She gestured at the husky. "Johnny didn't have a name—or didn't have one he liked, anyway. But your dog... I haven't heard you call him anything."

  "That's because I haven't."

  "You've had him for twenty years and never gave him a name?"

  "He's an extension of me, remember? Didn't seem necessary." Mark shrugged. "He knows when I'm talking to him. What difference does a name make?"

  "The difference is that names matter," Maggie said. "They give things identity. Presence. You can't just have a nameless dog following you around for two decades."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's sad."

  Mark glanced at her. "Sad."

  "Yes. Sad. Depressing. Lonely. Pick your adjective." She crouched down, scratching the husky behind the ears. He leaned into her touch, tail swaying. "See? He likes attention. He deserves a name."

  "Fine." Mark's tone was dry. "What would you suggest?"

  "I don't know. What do you think fits?"

  "Mark II."

  Maggie stopped walking. Stared at him. "Are you serious?"

  "Very practical. Easy to remember."

  "That's the worst name I've ever heard."

  "It's efficient."

  "It's lazy." Maggie stood up, crossing her arms. "You can't name him after yourself. That's just... no. Absolutely not."

  "Why do you care so much?"

  "Because someone has to! You clearly don't care about proper naming conventions—"

  "There are naming conventions?"

  "—so I'm stepping in." She pointed at him. "He needs a real name. A good one."

  Mark looked at her for a long moment. His expression shifted—almost amused. "If it bothers you that much, you name him."

  Maggie blinked. "Really?"

  "Sure. Go ahead. Name my dog."

  "You're serious."

  "Completely. If you're going to complain about it, you might as well solve the problem yourself."

  Maggie looked down at the husky. He tilted his head at her, tongue lolling out in what looked almost like a grin.

  "Locke," she said.

  "Locke?"

  "Yeah. Short. Simple. Sounds good." She scratched the dog's ears again. "And thematically appropriate, since he's trapped here with his annoying owner."

  "Locked because he's trapped," Mark said flatly. "How very literal of you."

  "You got a problem with it?"

  "I was expecting something more philosophical. You know, given the whole 'names have meaning' speech."

  "Well, I guess you can't expect too much from me."

  "Apparently not." But there was the ghost of a smile on his face. He looked down at the husky—at Locke. "What do you think? You like it?"

  The dog's tail swayed faster.

  "I think that's a yes," Maggie said.

  "Locke it is, then." Mark started walking again. "Though for the record, Mark II was perfectly fine."

  "For the record, you have terrible taste in names."

  "Says the woman who named a dolphin Johnny."

  "That was different. He literally looked like a Johnny."

  "He literally looked like a dolphin."

  "When he transformed—"

  "I know what you meant."

  They walked in companionable silence for a bit. The streets were changing again—less commercial, more residential. Houses lined the sidewalks, their facades rendered in muted greys and faded pastels. Most of them looked old, worn by time even in this dreamlike reflection of reality.

  But ahead, one house stood out.

  It was newer. The paint looked fresh—or at least fresher than everything around it. The windows were intact, the roof recently repaired. It didn't quite belong with the weathered buildings surrounding it.

  Mark headed straight for it.

  "This is it," he said, pushing open the front door.

  Inside was bare. A living room with basic furniture—couch, table, chairs. A kitchen visible through an archway. Stairs leading up to a second floor. Everything clean but minimalist. Like a house that had been built but not yet lived in.

  "Your safe house?" Maggie asked, looking around.

  "Temporary base, yeah. I use it when I need somewhere secure." Mark closed the door behind them. "It was reconstructed recently in the real world. Probably someone bought it, renovated the whole thing. That newness carries over here."

  "And that makes it safe how?"

  "No history. No accumulated emotional residue. No stories attached to it yet." He gestured around. "Old places in the Dreamscape can be complicated. They carry echoes of everything that happened in them in the real world. Happy memories, trauma, violence—all of it bleeds through. New places like this are blank slates. Neutral ground."

  "So we won't accidentally summon the ghost of a murder victim or something."

  "Exactly."

  "That's weirdly reassuring."

  Locke immediately made himself comfortable on the couch, curling up like he'd done this a hundred times before. Through the window, Maggie could see the eagle circling above the house, keeping watch.

  Mark walked to the center of the living room and turned to face Maggie.

  "Alright," he said. "First lesson. Learning not to accidentally create nightmares."

  "Sounds ominous."

  "It's actually pretty straightforward. Mostly boring, honestly. But necessary." He gestured for her to sit. "The key is controlling your automatic responses. Right now, your subconscious is doing whatever it wants—making pastries, manifesting fears, all of it unchecked. We need to change that."

  Maggie sat down on the couch next to Locke. "How?"

  "Substitution." Mark pulled a chair over and sat facing her. "When an unwanted thought appears, you immediately replace it with something safe. Something neutral. Something that can't hurt you even if it does manifest."

  "Like what?"

  "Whatever works for you. Some people use blank walls. Empty rooms. Clear sky. The idea is to have a default image that your mind goes to automatically when you feel fear or anxiety starting to build."

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  "So instead of imagining monsters, I imagine... nothing?"

  "Not nothing. Something specific, but harmless." He leaned back. "Think of it like a mental anchor. When you start to panic, you grab onto the anchor and hold it until the panic passes."

  Maggie thought about that. "Okay. So pick something harmless. What did you use?"

  "A white room. Four walls, ceiling, floor. Nothing else. Very boring, very safe."

  "That sounds incredibly depressing."

  "It kept me from accidentally manifesting things that wanted to eat me, so I stand by it." He pulled something from his pocket and held it out. "But you might have something better."

  It was the keychain. The one Locke had returned to her.

  Maggie took it, running her thumb over the two fighters frozen mid-strike.

  "It's already meaningful to you," Mark said quietly. "You felt something when you found it—even if you don't remember why."

  Something stirred in her chest. A hollow ache. Like the keychain connected to something important. Something she should want to remember.

  She could ask what he meant. Push for details. Try to remember why this object mattered.

  Or she could just... use it. As a tool. Nothing more.

  "Okay," she said, not meeting his eyes. "So I focus on this when things get scary?"

  Mark watched her for a moment. "That makes it powerful. Use it as your anchor. When you feel yourself starting to imagine something dangerous, focus on the keychain. The weight of it. The texture. The shape of the figures. Let it pull you back to neutral."

  Maggie closed her hand around the charm. It felt solid. Real. Grounding.

  Just a tool. That's all.

  "Okay," she said. "I can try that."

  "Good. Because now we're going to test it."

  "Test it how?"

  Mark's expression turned serious. "I'm going to show you something scary. Something designed to trigger a fear response. And you're going to practice controlling that fear using the anchor."

  "Control it how?"

  "By facing it. Looking at it directly and not letting the fear spiral into manifestation." He moved to the center of the room. "The anchor isn't about avoiding what scares you—it's about grounding yourself so you can face it without losing control."

  "So I have to look at the scary thing."

  "Yes. Face it. Acknowledge the fear. But don't let it control you." He raised his hand. "Ready?"

  "Probably not. But go ahead."

  The room darkened.

  Not gradually—suddenly. Like someone had flipped a switch. The grey afternoon light vanished, replaced by deep shadow. And in those shadows, something moved.

  It emerged from the corner—tall, hunched, with too many joints in its limbs. Its face was a blank expanse of pale skin, featureless except for a mouth that opened too wide.

  Maggie's first instinct wasn't fear.

  It was anger.

  "Oh, fuck no—"

  She was off the couch and swinging before she could think about it. Her fist connected with the thing's chest—or passed through it, more accurately. The illusion rippled like water where her punch landed, but it didn't disperse. Just reformed and kept advancing.

  "Interesting," Mark said from somewhere in the darkness.

  "What the hell is this thing?" Maggie backed up, hands still raised.

  "Your worst nightmare, presumably. How are you feeling?"

  "Pissed off."

  "Not scared?"

  "Not really." She watched the creature circle her. "More annoyed that I can't punch it."

  The lights came back. The creature vanished.

  Mark was studying her with an expression that was equal parts amused and thoughtful. "Huh. Your first instinct is to fight, not flee."

  "Yeah. Problem?"

  "Not a problem. Just... interesting." He rubbed his chin. "Okay. Different approach. Let's try something that actually scares you."

  "What?"

  "Think about the keychain."

  Maggie pulled it from her pocket. Focused on the weight. The texture. The—

  A snake appeared on the couch.

  "SHIT!" She jumped back.

  "Not the snake," Mark said calmly. "Focus on the keychain. It's not real yet."

  Maggie gripped the charm. Breathed. The snake flickered—half-real, half-illusion.

  Then a spider dropped from the ceiling.

  "FUCK—keychain, keychain—" She squeezed it harder.

  The spider vanished. The snake solidified.

  "You're letting your focus slip," Mark said. "Every time you panic, you make something new."

  "I'm trying!"

  "Try harder. Anchor. Now."

  She focused. The snake faded to nothing.

  "Better. But you need faster control. Because the real test is when you can't predict what'll scare you."

  He paused. "Tell me—are you afraid of bugs?"

  Maggie's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

  "Just curious. Cockroaches, specifically. How do you feel about cockroaches?"

  "Mark, don't you dare—"

  Something tickled her ankle.

  Maggie looked down.

  A cockroach—massive, easily the size of her palm—was crawling up her leg.

  "FUCK!" She stumbled backward, frantically trying to shake it off. "Get it off, get it off, get it off!"

  Two more appeared on the couch. Three more on the floor. They moved with that horrible skittering motion, antennae twitching.

  The keychain—she should grab the keychain—but all she could think about was the bugs, the way they moved, the way they felt, more of them appearing, what if they got in her hair, what if—

  "Oops." Mark's voice cut through her panic. "Too late. They're already real."

  "What?!"

  "You manifested them. Look."

  Maggie looked. The cockroaches were multiplying—not the controlled handful Mark had created, but dozens of them now, crawling over the floor, up the walls, real and solid and very, very present.

  "Oh fuck, oh fuck—" She was up on the couch now, trying to keep her feet off the floor. "Make them go away!"

  "I can't. They're yours, not mine."

  "MARK!"

  Locke, who had been napping peacefully, suddenly perked up. He looked at the swarm of cockroaches spreading across the floor, then at Maggie's panicked face, then back at the bugs.

  And then he went to work.

  The husky launched himself off the couch, paws scattering cockroaches left and right. He was surprisingly efficient—snapping at them, crushing them under his paws, herding them toward the door with the kind of focus usually reserved for actual prey.

  Mark, for his part, was stomping on the ones Locke missed. He looked completely unbothered, like dealing with manifestation-induced insect infestations was just another Tuesday.

  "A little help here?" he called to Maggie.

  "I'm not touching those things!"

  "They're your cockroaches. You need to stop making more of them."

  "How?!"

  "Stop panicking. Focus. Stop feeding the fear." He crushed three more under his boot. "Every time you think 'oh god there's more,' you create more. Control your thoughts or we'll be here all day."

  Maggie gritted her teeth. Grabbed the keychain. Forced herself to stop imagining worse scenarios.

  No more. Stop. Just what's here. Nothing new.

  The flow of new cockroaches slowed. Stopped.

  "There you go," Mark said. "Now we just have to deal with the ones you already made."

  It took another few minutes of Locke enthusiastically hunting down bugs and Mark stomping on stragglers, but eventually the last cockroach was dealt with. The house was bug-free again.

  Maggie slumped back against the couch, breathing hard. "That was awful."

  "Well," Mark said, brushing off his hands and sitting back down like nothing had happened. "That was a valuable lesson, don't you think?"

  Maggie stared at him. "A valuable lesson?"

  "Absolutely. You now know exactly what happens when you lose control." He gestured around the now-empty room. "You panic, you manifest the thing you're afraid of, and then you have to deal with it. Valuable information."

  "You're enjoying this."

  "A little bit, yeah."

  "I hate you."

  "You keep saying that." He leaned back. "But you also just successfully un-manifested a swarm of cockroaches. So the lesson wasn't a complete failure."

  "You could have warned me that was going to happen!"

  "Well, technically I did, haven't I been warning you about creating nightmares?" He grinned. "You just didn't think cockroaches counted."

  Locke trotted over to Maggie, tail swaying, looking extremely pleased with himself.

  "At least someone here is helpful," Maggie said, scratching behind his ears. "Good boy, Locke. You're way better than your owner."

  "He's an extension of me, remember? So technically, I'm the one who helped."

  "That's not how this works."

  "Isn't it?"

  Maggie glared at him. Mark just smiled back, completely unrepentant.

  "Can we try again?" she asked after a moment. "Without the part where I create an actual infestation this time?"

  "You sure? We can take a break—"

  "I'm sure. I want to do it right."

  Mark's expression softened slightly. "Alright. Same scenario. Cockroaches. But this time, you know what happens if you lose control."

  "Yeah. I get to clean up my own mess."

  "Exactly."

  This time, when the cockroaches appeared, Maggie was ready.

  Her hand went to the keychain immediately. The fear was still there—sharp and visceral and absolutely real. Every instinct screamed to panic, to run, to make them go away by any means necessary.

  But she didn't.

  She gripped the anchor. Felt the metal press into her palm. The two fighters, frozen mid-strike.

  And she looked at the cockroaches.

  Really looked. At their disgusting antennae. Their skittering legs. The way they moved across the floor.

  The fear was there. But she wasn't feeding it. Wasn't letting it spiral.

  She just... breathed. Held the anchor. And let the fear exist without giving it power.

  The cockroaches remained illusions. Nothing manifested. Nothing became real.

  After what felt like an eternity, they faded.

  Mark was smiling again. "There it is. That's what you need to do."

  Maggie let out a shaky breath. "That was still awful."

  "But you did it. You faced the fear, acknowledged it, and stayed in control." He stood up. "The anchor isn't about making the fear go away. It's about having something to hold onto while you process it."

  "Process it without manifesting an actual plague of insects."

  "Exactly."

  Maggie collapsed back onto the couch next to Locke. "This is exhausting."

  "Most useful things are." Mark glanced at her. "But you're getting it. Faster than I expected, honestly."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  "Don't let it go to your head."

  "Too late. I'm already feeling very accomplished about not creating more cockroaches."

  "The bar is very low."

  "And yet I cleared it."

  Despite everything, Mark looked almost proud.

  Maggie looked at the keychain in her hand. It had worked. When the panic set in, when her mind tried to spiral into worst-case scenarios, the anchor had pulled her back. Kept her grounded.

  "So what's next?" she asked.

  "More practice. Different scenarios. Building up your tolerance." Mark glanced at her. "And eventually, you learn to create things intentionally. But that comes later. First, you master not creating things accidentally."

  "Because accidentally creating swarms of cockroaches is bad."

  "Generally speaking, yes."

  Locke stretched on the couch, yawning. Through the window, the eagle continued its patrol overhead.

  Maggie leaned back, exhaustion suddenly hitting her. "Is it always this tiring? Being in the Dreamscape?"

  "Mental exertion is still exertion. You're learning to control your own mind—that takes energy." Mark sat back down. "Rest for a bit. We'll go again in a few minutes."

  "A few minutes?"

  "Told you it was mostly boring and repetitive."

  "You didn't mention it was exhausting."

  "You didn't ask."

  Despite everything, Maggie found herself smiling. This was insane. All of it. Learning to control her thoughts in a world made of dreams, being coached by someone who'd been trapped here for twenty years, using a keychain as a mental anchor against imaginary monsters.

  Insane.

  But also... kind of working.

  "Hey, Mark?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks. For... you know. Teaching me this stuff."

  He shrugged. "You're welcome. Though I'm mostly doing it so you don't accidentally summon something that tries to eat both of us."

  "Still. Thanks."

  "Don't get sentimental on me."

  "Wouldn't dream of it."

  "Bad joke."

  "I thought it was pretty good."

  Mark shook his head, but he was almost smiling again.

  They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Locke dozed. The eagle watched the street outside.

  And Maggie held onto her anchor, feeling its weight in her palm.

  "Tomorrow," Mark said without looking at her, "we stop reacting."

  She tightened her grip.

  And prepared herself for the next round.