Drowning in the Self
Ezra fell.
Not down. Not up.
Just… fell.
The void split open beneath him, its unseen grip pulling him deeper.
The figures—his figures—stood at the edges, their hollow eyes watching in silence.
No expressions. No movement.
Just watching.
The whisper in his head pulsed.
"This is not real."
Ezra clenched his jaw. "Doesn't feel that way."
He twisted, trying to grab onto something—but there was nothing.
Just endless, devouring black.
Then—
Hands.
Cold, countless hands burst from the dark, grabbing him.
Clawing at his arms. His legs. His face.
Dragging him deeper.
Ezra struggled.
His dagger flashed, slicing through fingers that weren't there.
They didn't bleed.
Didn't flinch.
They just kept pulling.
The whispers grew louder.
"You do not belong."
"You are an echo."
"A borrowed thing."
Ezra's breath hitched.
The whisper inside him—his whisper—shouted.
"FIGHT!"
Ezra gritted his teeth.
No more hesitation. No more waiting.
He reached inward.
The Sigil flared to life.
A sudden, violent pull—
And the void broke.
The hands vanished. The whispers died.
Ezra gasped, landing hard on solid ground.
His lungs burned. His pulse raced.
And when he looked up—
The void was gone.
He was somewhere new.
A city, old and broken. Towers crumbling, streets twisted and empty.
And at the center—
A single door.
Tall. Black.
Waiting.
Ezra exhaled shakily. "Right. More doors."
He pushed himself up—and walked forward.