The silence inside Ethan's dark apartment was deafening and oppressive.
It was a tiny, cramped box of a studio in Jersey City. The only sound was the harsh, rattling hum of a cheap refrigerator that his landlord refused to fix.
Ethan didn't bother flipping the light switch. He walked blindly past his unmade bed and pushed open the bathroom door.
He dropped his heavy leather briefcase onto the cold tile floor. He loosened his silk tie until it hung uselessly around his neck.
He didn't want to look at himself in the mirror. He just sat heavily on the closed lid of the toilet in the pitch-black room.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. The harsh, blue glare of the screen immediately illuminated his exhausted, pale face.
He opened social media. He started doomscrolling through endless, meaningless videos of people dancing and cooking in bright kitchens.
He just wanted to turn his brain off. He wanted to forget the numbers, the red blotter, and Linda's cold, unblinking stare.
He felt a deep, hollow ache in his chest. He mentally calculated the miserable balance of his checking account against his upcoming rent payment.
He thought to himself: My self-esteem is currently completely illiquid. I am a depreciating asset.
He swiped up on a video of a golden retriever. He didn't even smile.
Suddenly, the pipes inside the thin plaster walls began to groan.
It wasn't the usual metallic clank of old plumbing. It was a deep, wet, rushing sound, like a massive river surging through the building.
The noise grew louder, vibrating through the tiled floor beneath his feet.
Then came the smell.
A sudden, overwhelming stench of wet pine needles, muddy river water, and old, damp fabric violently filled the tiny, sterile bathroom.
Ethan dropped his phone into his lap. He looked up, totally confused.
Did a pipe burst on the fifteenth floor? Was his ceiling about to cave in?
The toilet bowl behind him began to bubble violently.
He felt a spray of freezing water hit the back of his neck.
He leaped up, spinning around just in time to see the toilet water sloshing over the pristine white rim. It soaked entirely through his expensive socks.
Ethan scrambled backward in horror. He pressed his back flat against the closed bathroom door.
A geyser of brown, muddy water erupted from the toilet bowl. At the exact same second, the bathtub behind the shower curtain began to violently spray water from the drain.
The plumbing was tearing itself apart. He opened his mouth to shout for his neighbors.
With a heavy, wet THUD, a solid mass of flailing limbs tumbled out of the eruption.
A full-grown man crashed onto the sodden bathmat.
Water splashed everywhere, coating the mirror and Ethan's suit pants in a layer of cold, muddy river silt.
Ethan's brain completely short-circuited. He clutched his phone to his chest with both hands like a plastic shield.
The man lying on his floor was coughing violently, hacking up a lungful of muddy water.
He was in his late thirties, dressed in drenched, heavy, multi-layered silk robes. The fabric was deeply embroidered but stained with mud and river weed.
He wore thick, traditional leather shoes that were currently leaking a puddle onto the cheap white tile.
The man scrambled to his knees, gasping for air. He desperately patted the top of his soaked hair, looking frantic.
He was looking for a missing hat.
Ethan stared at him, his mouth hanging completely open. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head violently.
He literally tried to diagnose his own insanity. This is a Wharton case study. I am having a stress-induced psychotic break. The margin call broke my brain.
He opened his eyes. The man was still there. He was currently wringing out a wide silk sleeve and glaring at the bathtub.
The man stopped coughing and slowly stood up.
Despite being soaking wet, covered in mud, and standing in a tiny New Jersey bathroom, he possessed a terrifying, absolute aristocratic dignity.
He looked around the cramped, tiled room with utter, profound disgust.
He didn't groan like a ghost. He didn't float or flicker. He sneered.
The man opened his mouth and spoke in booming, furious Korean.
It wasn't modern Seoul slang. It was archaic, heavy, deeply formal language that Ethan barely understood from historical dramas his grandmother used to watch.
"Where is the King's retinue?!" the man bellowed. His voice echoed painfully in the small, tiled space. "Which wretched valley is this? Have the Japanese savages overtaken the crossing?"
Ethan stood frozen against the door. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even breathe.
The man glared down at his own ruined silk robes. He cursed the heavens loudly, throwing his hands up in a dramatic gesture of absolute outrage.
He stomped his wet leather shoe against the floor tile. "Speak, you mute peasant! What forest have I washed up in?"
The man finally noticed Ethan cowering against the door in his ruined suit.
His dark eyes narrowed. He looked Ethan up and down, taking in the untied silk tie, the wet socks, and the glowing rectangle of the smartphone clutched to Ethan's chest.
"What strange, tight garments are these?" the man demanded. He took a threatening step forward. "Are you a Ming merchant? A spy? Why do you hold a glowing brick?"
Ethan swallowed hard. His voice cracked completely when he finally managed to force a word out.
"I... I live here," Ethan stammered in broken, terrified Korean. "This is my bathroom."
The man stopped. He blinked, looking genuinely baffled by Ethan's terrible grammar.
He slowly turned his head. His eyes locked onto the toilet.
The water had stopped geysering, but the bowl was still full of murky river water. A single, wet pine needle floated on the surface.
The man stared at the white porcelain bowl. He looked at the silver flush handle. He looked at the roll of toilet paper mounted on the wall.
He pointed a trembling, soaking-wet finger directly at the toilet.
"What," the man hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper, "is this?"
"It's... it's a toilet," Ethan squeaked. He felt incredibly stupid explaining plumbing to a hallucination.
The man's face went completely pale. His expression shifted from aristocratic rage to profound, apocalyptic horror.
He looked at Ethan, then back at the toilet, then back at Ethan.
He took another step forward, water pooling heavily at his traditional shoes. He towered over Ethan.
The man inhaled a massive breath. He pointed a rigid finger right between Ethan's eyes.
"What manner of absolute barbarian," the man bellowed, his voice shaking the mirror, "places a porcelain chamber pot in the exact center of a dwelling?!"
Ethan flinched backward, hitting his head against the wooden door.
"You have ruined the qi of this entire valley!" the man screamed, throwing his arms wide. "You sleep next to your own filth! No wonder you look like a sickly, defeated beggar!"
Ethan slid slowly down the bathroom door until he was sitting on the wet floor.
He was trapped between a screaming, dripping historical figure and his own bathtub.
He stared up at the furious man towering over him. The smell of the muddy river was entirely real. The cold water soaking through his suit pants was entirely real.
Ethan realized with a cold, absolute dread that this wasn't a hallucination at all.
He hadn't lost his mind. He had just gained a profoundly angry roommate.
His life hadn't hit rock bottom on the trading floor. It was just getting started.