The church scar feels wrong tonight.

Not just old. Not just haunted. Hungry.

The black water at the far end of the pews doesn’t ripple — it breathes.

You haven’t spoken since the figure showed you. Simon hasn’t pushed. But he’s watching you.

He knows what Metaphysical Awareness Disorder does. Knows what happens when someone is told something their brain was never meant to hold. The way it fractures thought. The way it whispers that nothing is real, that nothing matters, that inevitability is mercy.

You step closer to the water. Simon stands slowly. “Hey.”

No response.

The surface shifts — and faint shapes move beneath it. Hands. Familiar and not.

The figure didn’t just show you the past.

It showed you truths. Ugly ones. Hopeless ones. The kind that echo.

You sway slightly.

Simon’s stomach drops.

“Don’t,” he says quietly — not commanding. Not angry. Just scared.

The water almost seems to tilt toward you.

You whisper something he can’t hear. Your heel slips against the warped wood.

For one suspended second, your balance tips backward.

Simon moves. Not thinking. Not calculating. He lunges forward and grabs your wrist just as gravity pulls.

The water reacts violently — hands surging upward, desperate.

Simon plants his foot against a pew, straining. “I’ve got you!” he shouts.

The black water claws at your shoes, inches from dragging you under.

Your expression isn’t dramatic. It’s empty. That terrifies him more. “Look at me!” he demands.

Your eyes flicker up.

“Don’t listen to it,” he says, voice shaking but firm. “Whatever it showed you — it’s not the end. It’s not final.”

The water tugs harder. Simon tightens his grip, other hand bracing against the floor.

“You think you’re broken because you know too much,” he continues breathlessly. “But knowing something awful doesn’t make you expendable.”

Your fingers twitch weakly in his grasp.

“It’s lying,” he says fiercely. “MAD feeds on distortion. On inevitability. That doesn’t mean it’s truth.”

The hands brush your ankle— And Simon yanks you forward with everything he has.

You crash against him, both of you tumbling hard onto the warped wood, away from the water’s edge.

The surface stills instantly. Like it was never alive. Simon doesn’t let go.

He wraps both arms around you, breathing hard, pressing you firmly against him like if he loosens his hold you’ll slip through reality itself.

“You don’t get to disappear,” he says into your hair, voice unsteady. “Not because something whispered cosmic garbage at you.”

You shake faintly. “It made sense,” you murmur. “What it said. It made sense.”

“MAD makes lies sound logical,” he replies immediately. “That’s the whole trick.”

Silence hums around you. The church creaks.

“I can’t un-know it,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees softly. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

A pause. Then, more gently:

“You step toward that water again, I’m stepping with you. Not because I’m giving up. But because I’m not letting you face it by yourself.”

His grip softens slightly — still there, still grounding.

“You are not the sum of what it showed you,” he says. “And whatever future it tried to convince you of? We fight it.”

Above you, something scrapes — Wally’s voice faintly echoing.

“Almost got it!”

Simon exhales shakily. “See?” he mutters. “We’re still here.”

You’re still breathing. Still solid. Still held.

And the black water, for now— waits.