Kelm’s been to places nightmares wouldn’t go. In the Echo field, they’re called Sequences—dream realms, thought-space death spas. Every half-dead head in a gel-box spins out its own universe, coded in guilt, nostalgia, and parental resentment.

The dreams vary. The decay is universal. No clean, coherent mind-states exist. Even “stable” ones have seams showing.

Kelm breaks down the categories:

Loopers: Same ten minutes forever. Birthday, sandwich, breakup. Loop degrades—six versions of same dog, sun stuck mid-blink.

Fortress Brains: Narcissist empires. Marble towers, golden soldiers. Kill one, entire world collapses like IKEA cathedral.

Guilt Hells: Self-flavored purgatory. Childhood home always on fire, courtroom speaking in mother’s voice, funeral where you’re invisible. NPCs aggressive, physics weird.

Ego Shatter Zones: Memory soup. Characters glitch, rooms change shape. Kelm starts forgetting who he is—literally.

Constructivists: Nerds who build civilizations. DMV run by papier-mâché angels, moon colony powered by crosswords. Exhausting, not hostile.

Emotional Bomb Loops: Raw feelings at eleven. Everything cries—walls, furniture, rain. Contagious. Kelm once cried for days after.

Resistance Constructs: Dreamers who know he’s there. Build traps, deploy decoys. One recreated Kelm as villain with theme park where you pay to watch him die. Five-star reviews.

Every sequence different. Every kill familiar. Worst part: half don’t realize they’re dead. Think Kelm’s the dream, a memory, their conscience. One called him Aunt Karen. That’s when he pulled the trigger.