Despite the ocean of guilt he felt, Syril had no time to waste standing in this lady’s front garden. He raised his hand and attempted to be as non-threatening as possible, a rather difficult feat considering the magnitude of blood and sweat covering his body.

He walked towards her, readying himself to protect his face if she decided to start swinging. To his surprise, she did not attempt to hit him, nor did she try to stop him from entering. Once inside, he closed the door behind him, sure to lock it in the hopes it would buy him a few more seconds.

He turned around, the woman was still brandishing the pipe like a warrior fighting their last battle, her eyes fixed to Syril. 

She stood guard in front of a small wooden staircase; Syril was sure a pipe to the face awaited him if he attempted to reach the second floor. So instead, he briskly walked through the adjoining living room.

It was impeccably clean; the couches faced toward an old runic tv paused on a particularly steamy scene from a long-since cancelled soap opera. The walls were papered in a flowery print and lined with pictures of a small girl and the older lady in various poses and adventure; Syril could only assume the girl was the lady’s granddaughter.

He pushed down the guilt that rose in him like bile; there would be time for that when people weren’t trying to kill him.

“I’m really sorry, these men are trying to kill me; I just needed to get off the street,” he said as earnestly as his exhausted lungs could manage.

“So you decided to break my door!?”

“I’ll pay for it” He stepped over a vacuum, the metallic end of which was missing, “I just need some water, and I’ll leave through the back door.”

The lady walked towards him, the pipe now relieved of its duty and resting at her side – she now only looked like she wanted to hurt him a little bit.

“Why should I trust you?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, too tired to argue, “I guess I wouldn’t if I was in your shoes.”

She raised an eyebrow, “so I shouldn’t trust you?”

He shrugged again, nervously looking towards the front door, “I mean, I want you to, but I can’t really force you.”

“you’re a weird boy.”

“After my night, I’m inclined to agree with you, lady.”

“My name is Ova, and if you’re going to break into my house, the least you could do is call me by my name.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Syril”, he peeled his eyes from the front door, “I’ll just have some water, and you’ll never see me again, ok?”

“Except for when you pay for my door, obviously,” 

He smiled and briskly walked into the kitchen, grabbing a glass drying in the sink and pouring himself the first sip of water he had had in too long. Despite the crushing time pressure he was facing, he tried to savour the feel of the water rushing down his throat – the crushing pain in his stomach now downgraded to a manageable ache.

“Who’s trying to kill you?” she asked, studying Syril.

“I don’t know”, he muttered through gulps of water.

Almost on cue, an insistent knock echoed through the house.

Syril looked at Ova; his face pale, and his eyes widened; he had run out of time. Why did he stay for so long? 

She walked towards the door, her eyes never once looking back towards Syril – who stood defeated in the kitchen, head hung low and exhausted. So this was how it ended; even if he ran now, he had lost any head start or hope of outrunning them.

He fingered the watch through his trousers - for something his brother had killed for, it really could have given him more help than just telling him to run.

“Give me a minute! I’m just putting on my… um… dressing gown.”

He looked up; she wasn’t at the front door; she was standing over a tiny closet at the base of the stairs, insistently gesturing for him to get inside. 

Syril only stood still for a second before hurrying towards the closet, doing his best to make as little noise as possible. But, before he could sit down, she closed the door and plunged his world into muffled darkness.

He sat as carefully as possible, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing. When did it become so hard to breathe?

He listened as intently as he could. However, focusing was hard because a particularly sharp object was jutting into his butt.

He could hear the muffled sounds of the front door opening.

Gods, whatever was poking him was hurting.

The men were talking.

Seriously what does this lady keep in here?

Someone was walking.

Syril tried to shift quietly. It didn’t move.

Now louder talking.

He tried again; it felt like a knife was stabbing into him.

He heard radio static.

He shifted again; he was sure he had it.

The footsteps were moving away from him now.

He shifted one last time and felt whatever was stabbing him slip out from under him.

Then in what had become the epitome of his luck, or just a cruel and thoughtless joke from an equally awful god, Syril felt his world erupt into an orchestra of broken glass and collapsing furniture.

Crap.

This was it; there was nowhere to go.

He pulled the watch out; despite the darkness, he could sense its shape and form as if he were looking at it through the light of day.

The closet shook as the door rattled on its hinges.

“It’s locked!? I’ll break the door down,” Syril recognised the man’s voice from the house.

He was sure nothing friendly was waiting for him on the other side of the closet.

Syril looked down at the watch, anger intertwining with his panic, “Seabright is dead; for whatever reason, you appeared in my hands. It’s because of YOU that I’m here now; it’s because of YOU I’m about to be killed by some random guy.”

The door rattled. Syril was shocked at the sturdiness of Ova’s doors.

Desperation and frustration overwhelmed him, “you told me to run; you got me out of the school, don’t tell me you did all that just to let me get caught here.”

The guard screamed. Another bang rattled the door.

Syril gripped the watch so tightly it cut into his hand, “I’ll do anything you want.”

For what felt like an eternity, Syril watched the space the writing had once appeared, his last semblance of hope fading as it remained blank.

Another crash, and the door to the closet finally gave way. Syril looked into the eyes of the man so desperate to find him, determined to show him no fear.

“You nearly had us there, kid,” the man grunted as he reached down the grab Syril; he had covered his arm in so many scars and tattoos no flesh was visible, “they asked for you alive, but don’t think I won’t hurt you if you act up.”

Syril felt the watch warm in his hand; he looked down as the writing appeared on the watch.

“Let’s talk.”

And then the world went dark. Again, Syril felt weightless as everything fell around him, but this time his lungs held air, his mind remained calm, and his eyes remained open.

His scenery was a darkness so pure it was almost spectacular; it felt neither warm nor cold; instead, it felt peaceful. He looked around; the only objects within the vast space were two large orange sun-like orbs that floated in endless darkness.

“Hello?” Syril called into the space, “I think I have an appointment.”

His voice didn’t echo. Instead, it sounded shrill and soft – like he was speaking within a soundproof room. For the longest time, there was no response, the only sound seeming to be Syril’s shallow breathing.

“Hello Syril,” a deep voice called from the darkness, “it’s nice to meet you.”