Ethan felt himself sinking.
Not falling—sinking.
Like he'd been dropped into black, syrup-thick water. The roar of the colosseum faded to a distant hum, then to nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He opened his eyes slowly.
There was no light at first—just endless black. But gradually, far above, a faint silver pinprick appeared. A surface. A way out. He reached toward it instinctively—arm stretching, fingers grasping—but the current only dragged him deeper.
He let his arm fall.
Closed his eyes again.
And sank.
The deeper he went, the quieter everything became. No pain. No panic. Just… calm. A strange, velvet peace that made his heartbeat slow to a lazy drum.
Then—a voice.
Low. Deep. Older than he was. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"What do you want?"
Ethan's eyes fluttered open.
He was still sinking—slowly now—like drifting through ink.
"I… I don't know," he muttered. His own voice sounded small in the void.
The voice waited.
Patient.
