but there was no water.
He hung suspended within a sphere of shimmering liquid, floating in the darkness of a narrow alley. The pressure crushed him from every side, like being dragged miles beneath the ocean’s surface. His chest burned. His ears rang. The liquid pressed inward, relentless, intimate, absolute.
His white robes drifted around his body, slow and weightless. The kippa on his head remained in place, absurdly intact, as if clinging to dignity even as his body began to fail.
His eyes were wide
Not with panic—panic had already passed. What remained was the terrible stillness that followed, the moment when the body finally understood what the mind still refused to accept.
Then—
Footsteps.
Two sets. Running. Fast. Urgent. Their echoes cracked sharply against the alley walls as they drew closer.
A bald monk burst into view, his breath controlled despite the speed of his movement. His gaze swept the alley—not searching for danger, but for confirmation
His eyes locked onto the floating figure.
For a fleeting instant, something ancient flickered behind his gaze.
His eyes were not normal.
Three colors bled into one another—the whites tinged green, the pupils glowing red, blue light swirling faintly at the edges like lightning trapped beneath glass.
Too late, he realized.
At the far end of the alley, the shadows deepened.
A gigantic silhouette stood motionless, barely contained by the darkness. Broad shoulders. Inhuman proportions. A presence so dense it seemed to bend the air around it.
Then—
It smiled.
Slowly, deliberately, the massive figure closed its hand, fingers curling inward as though crushing something invisible.
The sphere responded instantly.
The pressure intensified.
The man convulsed once—only once—before his body went completely still. The liquid collapsed inward, folding in on itself, then vanished as though it had never existed.
The body fell.
The sound of it—a heavy, final thud—carried through the night
The old man woke with a gasp, his body jerking upright in bed as the echo of the impact rang in his ears. His heart pounded violently. Sweat slicked his forehead and soaked the sheets beneath him.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.
A dream, he told himself.}
But the sound had been too real.
He glanced at the clock on the stool beside his bed.
3:00 a.m.
Sleep would not return. He rose and moved to the window, drawn by a feeling he could neither name nor resist.
At first, his vision blurred.
Then it sharpened.
A man lay motionless on the ground below.
White robes. A kippa.
The old man’s breath caught in his throat.
Down the alley, a bald monk approached the body, his steps slow, deliberate, heavy with something that looked like regret.
Is he dead? the old man wondered.
He already knew the answer.
There was only one way to be sure.
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