For a while, there was NOTHING.
No sound.
No warmth.
No body.
Just Pitch Black.
Ezra floated somewhere between breath and thought. He tried to open his eyes, but the command went nowhere. His eyelids stayed sealed. He tried to move a hand—no response. The effort bounced back through him, hollow.
The world had collapsed into a single color: black. Not darkness, but void—a color that swallowed shape, memory, even the idea of space.
Panic arrived slowly, like a tide. He screamed inwardly, throat locked, lungs rigid. His heart hammered once, twice, and then every beat sounded too far away, like it belonged to another body buried beneath him.
Move, he begged. Nothing.
The silence pressed harder, a physical weight against his ribs. It felt like being buried under thought itself.
Then—impact.
A sudden shock tore through his abdomen, as if someone had driven a boot into him. The air ripped from his lungs. The pain wasn't sharp; it was total—his whole body convulsing, folding in on itself. For a moment, he thought he could hear the sound of his own bones grinding.
He gasped.
Air returned. Vision flooded white. The void broke open.
Rain. Pavement. The city again.
Ezra blinked, coughing, chest heaving. The world wobbled around him, unreal in its angles. He pushed himself up slowly, hands trembling. The puddle beside him reflected a face he almost recognized.
For a long minute he simply sat there, shivering, waiting for the pain to fade. It didn't. It just sank deeper, into places no hand could reach.
When he finally stood, the street was empty. The storm had passed, leaving behind the smell of wet stone and rust.
He walked home in silence.
At the house, everything was normal again—too normal. The lights were soft, the sound of utensils faint.
Rosey's voice called from the kitchen. "You missed dinner, Son. Sit down; I kept it warm."
He nodded, wordless, and took his place at the table. Sophie and Vale argued about something small; Miller scrolled through his phone. Ezra ate automatically, not tasting anything, his mind still echoing with the memory of that kick—of his body splitting apart in the dark.
When the meal ended, he excused himself, went to his room, and closed the door.
The pill bottle waited on the nightstand.
He unscrewed the cap and shook two tablets into his hand instead of one. The chalky white discs stared up at him like tiny moons.
Dr. Ezekiel's voice returned, soft and precise: "One at bedtime. No more."
Ezra hesitated.
Then swallowed both.
He lay back, heart still aching faintly, and stared at the ceiling until it blurred. His breath slowed, pulse thickening in his ears.
A sound—almost like glass shifting underfoot—whispered somewhere in the room.
He turned his head. Nothing there.
Another sound: a soft inhale that wasn't his.
His chest tightened. He couldn't tell if it came from the room or from inside his own skull.
He shut his eyes. The medicine pulled him down again—faster, heavier than before.
Images came without color: outlines of figures pressed behind glass, the faint shimmer of water flowing upward, the reflection of his own eyes blinking before he did.
He tried to sit up. Couldn't.
The edge of the mattress sank beside him, as though someone else had just sat down.
A whisper slid through the dark:
"Keep watching."
Then everything fell silent.
"If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving a comment, rating, or Power Stone vote. Your support helps the story grow and motivates me to keep writing. Thank you for being a part of this journey!"
"Follow me on Instagram Updates & extras: [https://www.instagram.com/myth_9511?igsh=bjhhZml3M2I2eXp0]. Join our Discord community for Talk & theories: [https://discord.gg/HXeNstmRnx]. Let's connect!"
"And if anyone didn't understand the "Synopsis" means comment! so i will explain."