The pressure didn't sharpen immediately.
That made it worse.
Hours passed. He moved through familiar places that felt slightly misaligned, like replicas built from memory rather than reality. The pulse stayed steady, but now it carried weight, subtle and constant.
He began to notice things he hadn't before.
Places where sound thinned. Objects that felt heavier than they should be. People whose expressions lingered too long between emotions.
He wasn't seeing corruption everywhere.
He was seeing where it could grow.
The realization unsettled him more than the creature had.
At a small café, he sat by the window and watched steam curl from his cup. For a moment, the steam formed a pattern—then collapsed into nothing.
The pulse stirred.
He understood the temptation then.
To push. To define. To grab hold of something solid and become something rather than remain suspended.
His Essence responded instantly, tightening, eager.
He stopped it.
The pressure spiked.
Not pain. Not fear.
Resistance.
Someone screamed outside.
Not loudly. Just once.
By the time he reached the street, it was over. A man lay on the ground, breathing shallowly, eyes unfocused. People gathered, confused, uncertain what they'd witnessed.
No blood. No wounds.
The pulse told him the truth anyway.
The man had tried to ascend.
Too fast. Too forcefully.
His Essence had collapsed inward, leaving space behind.
Something would fill it.
He stepped back into the crowd, heart steady but heavy.
Now he understood.
Purity wasn't protection.
It was a delay.
And delay, in this world, was a choice with weight.
Somewhere far beyond the city, something ancient shifted, responding not to him alone, but to every unresolved Essence like his.
The pressure deepened.
And for the first time, he wondered how long a human could remain undecided before the world decided for them.