1973

The water had gone cold an hour ago and yet he hadn’t moved.

Cigarette ash clung to the rim of the porcelain tub, a few stray flakes drifting onto the surface of the water, dissolving into nothing. He took another slow drag, let the smoke burn its way down, let it settle deep in his lungs before exhaling in a lazy stream toward the ceiling. It curled like a ghost before fading.

The lights flickered once, humming with that quiet, buzz that reminded him of hospital fluorescents, the way they hummed overhead while the machines beeped their slow, inevitable countdowns. He could still hear them if he let his mind drift too far—those soft, dying gasps. Some nights, he thought he could still feel fingers tightening around his wrist, a whisper rasping: Don’t let me go like this.

But he had.

He tilted his head back against the chipped tiles, letting the mask rest on the edge of the tub beside him. It was a simple thing, plain and unremarkable, just like all the others here. No identity. No past. No expectations. That was the deal. The cult didn’t promise salvation. It didn’t demand penance. It simply gave a damn about you. That’s why he stayed.

From outside the bathroom, he could hear Isaac yelling his name—probably looking for help clearing the west fields again. He took another drag and sank lower into the water. Isaac would figure it out. Eventually.