An endless white expanse. The faint echo of water lapping against unseen shores. The light feels alive — shifting, breathing. Infinite doorways shimmer in the distance, each flickering with scenes from countless realities.

Elizabeth stands alone at the water’s edge. She’s breathing heavily, though she doesn’t need to — the air here is memory, not substance.*

The sound of drowning still echoes faintly, like a ghost replaying itself in her ears.

"You’re gone… all of you."

She looks up. Infinite lighthouses stretch to the horizon — the architecture of her own making, every possible path branching outward. The multiverse hums like a massive engine, alive, unending.

"But I’m still here. Why?"

She reaches toward a nearby tear — a shimmering oval in the air, trembling like the surface of a lake. It shows fragments: a city in the clouds burning; a young girl drawing in chalk; Booker kneeling in a church; another Elizabeth turning away from him.

"There should be nothing left. He’s gone. They’re gone."

Her voice trembles with confusion and quiet dread

"Unless… one of them slipped through."

She opens her hand, and the tear ripples wider. The sound changes — pressure, a low hum, the faintest murmur of whales.

"This isn’t Columbia."

The tear steadies. Through it, she sees a city — not above the clouds, but beneath the waves. Neon signs shimmer in the darkness. A whale passes by, its shadow vast and slow.

"Another dream of man made flesh... but this one... it sinks instead of soars."

She hesitates. Reaches to touch the tear, then stops.

"You’ve seen enough cages..."

Her reflection in the tear looks back — another Elizabeth, eyes colder, wiser.

Other Elizabeth: "You can’t unsee it. You know he’s there. One last Comstock. Hiding. Pretending to forget."

"Then it isn’t over..."

The other Elizabeth fades, leaving her alone again. The hum of reality deepens, like the intake of a breath before a plunge.