Chapter 4: The Gilded Cage

Chapter 4: The Gilded Cage

The face in Ethan’s bathroom mirror was a cruel joke. It was Aaron’s face, yes, but scrubbed clean of the last five years of exhaustion and anxiety. The faint lines of worry that had begun to etch themselves around his eyes were gone. His skin, usually pale and sallow from too many hours indoors, had a healthy, vital glow. He looked younger, stronger. He looked like a stranger. Lugh’s elixir hadn’t just healed him; it had stolen his weariness, the very proof of his struggles, and replaced it with this alien vitality. It was a brand, a mark of ownership, and looking at it made him feel sick with violation.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up his throat. He had to get out. Lugh had manifested in Ethan’s pantry. What if he came back? What if he hurt Ethan? The thought was unbearable.

He bolted from the bathroom, snatching the discarded steak knife from the kitchen floor. He didn’t know why, but leaving it felt like leaving a part of himself behind. He fumbled with the locks on Ethan’s front door and fled into the pre-dawn stillness of the hallway, not looking back.

His car, a decade-old sedan with a permanent scent of stale coffee, was his only sanctuary. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, the worn fabric a familiar comfort against his unnaturally vibrant skin. He drove aimlessly for hours, watching the city wake up through the greasy film on his windshield. Where could he go? His own apartment was compromised. His brother’s home was a trap. Every enclosed space—every closet, every cabinet, every pantry—now felt like a potential doorway to that twilight forest. The world had become a minefield of mundane horrors.

That first night, he parked in the far corner of a 24-hour grocery store lot and tried to sleep. He reclined the driver’s seat, the steak knife on the passenger side, a useless talisman. But sleep wouldn’t come. Every shadow seemed to twist into the shape of Lugh. Every distant sound morphed into the opening notes of that soul-destroying jingle. He found himself staring at the glove compartment, his heart pounding. What if he opened it? Would he find a sequined host smiling back? The fear was irrational, but it was absolute. He couldn’t touch it.

Days blurred into a miserable haze of gas station food, public restrooms, and the constant, thrumming anxiety. His new body was a gilded cage; he had boundless energy but nowhere to spend it, a healthy glow that was a lie, a physical resilience that only served to highlight how completely his spirit was breaking.

On the third day, Ethan found him. Aaron had parked near a public library to use their Wi-Fi, pretending to still be working his data-entry job. A sharp rap on the driver’s side window made him jump. It was Ethan, his face a thundercloud of concern and anger.

Aaron rolled down the window. “Hey.”

“‘Hey’? That’s all you have to say?” Ethan’s voice was tight with disbelief. “I’ve been calling you for two days, Aaron. I was about to file a missing person’s report. What the hell is going on? Why are you living in your car?”

Ethan’s eyes scanned him, and his anger faltered, replaced by stark confusion. “And what… what did you do? You look… different.”

The lie he’d prepared felt flimsy and pathetic. “I’m fine. Just… needed some space. I’ve been on a health kick. Juicing, meditation, all that stuff. It’s working wonders, I guess.”

Ethan stared at him as if he’d just started speaking another language. “A health kick? You nearly died from food poisoning three days ago, and now you look like you just came back from a two-week spa vacation, but you’re sleeping in a car and ignoring your only family? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I know it sounds weird,” Aaron said, his voice pleading. “Just… trust me. I’m figuring things out.”

“Figuring what out?” Ethan’s frustration boiled over. “This isn’t you, Aaron! Talk to me! Was it the gift basket? Did someone threaten you? Is that why you won’t go home?”

Every question was a hammer blow, widening the chasm between them. The truth was a wild, monstrous thing that would get him locked away, and every lie was a betrayal that was destroying the most important relationship in his life. He felt trapped between insanity and isolation.

“There was no gift basket, was there?” Ethan asked, his voice suddenly quiet, hurt.

Aaron couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. He stared at his own hands on the steering wheel, the hands of an eighteen-year-old. “I have to go,” he mumbled, turning the key in the ignition.

“Aaron, wait—”

He didn’t wait. He pulled out of the parking space and drove away, the image of Ethan’s wounded, bewildered face burning in his rearview mirror. He was completely, utterly alone.

That night, the jingle came back.

He was parked in another anonymous lot, the city lights painting the low clouds an ugly orange. He was trying to eat a cold, greasy burger when he heard it.

Risk! Or! Reward!

It was faint, so faint he thought it was just the memory playing tricks on him again, his frayed nerves finally snapping. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples. Go away. You’re not real.

But the tune didn’t stop. It was cheerful, upbeat, and maddeningly persistent. It wasn’t in his head. The sound was too clear, too external. His eyes shot open. He killed the radio, plunging the car into silence.

The jingle was still there. A tinny, music-box version of the theme, seeping into the car from… somewhere.

He held his breath, straining to locate the source. It wasn’t coming from outside. It was closer. Much closer. He leaned forward, pressing his ear against the dashboard, the glove compartment, the seats. The music grew slightly louder as he moved toward the back of the car.

A cold dread, heavier and more profound than any fear he had yet experienced, settled in his stomach. With trembling hands, he got out of the car and walked to the back. The music was undeniably coming from inside the trunk.

He stared at the trunk lid, his heart hammering against his ribs. Lugh was in there. Or the woman. Or some other nightmare he couldn’t possibly imagine. But he had to know. He couldn’t live with this insidious, invisible torment.

He fumbled for his keys, the metal cold against his clammy skin. He inserted the key into the lock and turned. The trunk popped open with a groan of old hinges.

It was empty.

Except for his spare tire, a dusty jack, and a half-empty bottle of windshield washer fluid. There was no golden microphone, no smiling host, no impossible forest. There was nothing.

But the music was still playing, clear as day, emanating from the very metal and fabric of the trunk itself. It wasn't being broadcast from a device. The car was the device.

Aaron stumbled back, his legs giving out from under him. He leaned against the cold metal of the bumper, the cheerful tune washing over him. He had tried to run. He had tried to hide. He had abandoned his home, alienated his brother, and driven himself to the brink of madness, all to escape.

And it had all been for nothing. The game wasn't in the pantry. It wasn't in a specific place. It was with him. It was in him. His rejuvenated body was the gilded cage, and this car, his last pathetic scrap of freedom, was just another one of its bars.

He couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide. A wave of terrifying clarity washed over him as the jingle continued its endless, cheerful loop. To survive, he had to play.