Bathtub Epiphanies, Fashionably Late Awakenings, and a Very Suave Interrogator from the Department of Obscure and Terrifying Things.
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Author Note: Sawyer's back! (Sort of. Mostly wet and confused.) Get ready for existential plumbing, questionable fashion choices, and the introduction of a very well-dressed individual who seems to know way more than he should. Things are about to get… departmentalized.
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"Really, Sawyer?" he muttered under his breath, the words dragging out in a low rumble, soaked in exhaustion and exasperation. His voice cracked slightly as he stirred, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to his nostrils while every movement reminded him of just how brutally drained he was. A groan escaped his lips as he forced himself upright on the stiff medical gurney, muscles trembling with the effort.
"You're in the middle of fighting an evil witch who could probably unravel the very fabric of reality," he continued, each word punctuated by a dry laugh laced with disbelief, "and you decide that's the best time to black out?"
It wasn't really a complaint. It wasn't even addressed to anyone but himself. Just a rhetorical jab—his only way of dealing with the storm of helplessness that had surged through him when he lost consciousness. Beneath the sarcasm was a flicker of something rawer: shame. He hadn't meant to pass out. He'd simply hit his limit. And that realization stung.
As his senses began to reorient, the sharp buzzing in his ears gave way to a dull, rhythmic throbbing behind his eyes. It felt like someone had taken a steel hammer to the base of his skull. Every blink sent a ripple of pain down his spine. He drew in a shaky breath and let his fingers explore the surface beneath him, expecting the sterile chill of metal.
Instead, his fingertips brushed something rough and grainy—coarse grains sliding beneath his skin like warm sugar.
Sand?
His brows furrowed. That couldn't be right. He remembered the gurney. He remembered Bonny. He remembered the medical lights, Sully's voice, and then... nothing. Just a void. And now this?
Confusion, thick and disorienting, clouded his already fragile thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form a coherent word, a voice sliced through the silence, its tone calm but unmistakably direct.
"Do you?"
Sawyer flinched. The sound came from directly ahead, resonating not just in the air but somewhere deeper, as if it echoed inside his chest. Instinctively, his head jerked up. His vision was a blur at first, swirling shapes and bleeding color, but slowly, it began to clear—like fog peeling back from glass.
Standing just a few feet away was a man. Not just any man. An impossible man.
He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, tall and calm in his stance, with hair as white as bleached snow—thick, slightly tousled, glowing faintly under the ambient light. His eyes, however, were what caught and held Sawyer's attention: a deep, warm brown, steady and intense, like they had seen far more than any man should. Eyes that felt unnervingly familiar.
But it was the face.
Sawyer's breath caught in his throat as he stared, heart thudding unevenly. The man's face was... his. Not exactly—older, more weathered, framed by a neatly trimmed beard and lines of experience that softened his expression—but undeniably him.
It was like looking into a mirror warped by time. The resemblance was too precise to be coincidental. He couldn't tear his gaze away, couldn't decide if he was terrified or entranced. Every instinct in him screamed that something extraordinary was happening, but he didn't have the clarity—or the strength—to unpack it yet.
"...What is this?" he whispered hoarsely, more to himself than to the man before him, the words barely audible over the rise and fall of his breath.
"So, do you? You know, talk to yourself all the time?" the man asked with a teasing lilt in his voice, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His tone was casual, light—too light, as if they weren't suspended in the middle of some impossible space. It was as though he had been standing there all along, quietly listening to Sawyer's muttered frustrations and now found them amusing.
Sawyer blinked, thrown off balance not just by the question, but by the familiarity in the man's tone—like an older brother calling him out. He stiffened instinctively, sitting up straighter despite the heaviness in his limbs and the lingering ache in his head.
"What? No!" he shot back too quickly, the words tumbling out with a defensive edge, his voice cracking slightly as embarrassment pricked at him. It wasn't a convincing lie, and deep down, he knew it.
The man tilted his head, eyes glinting with barely restrained amusement. "You just lied, didn't you?" he said smoothly, his smirk deepening. There was a twinkle in his gaze that made Sawyer feel naked—like this stranger could see straight through him, beyond skin and bone, all the way to his thoughts.
Sawyer opened his mouth to reply but hesitated. His throat went dry, the words caught somewhere between indignation and unease. There was something off about this entire encounter, but his mind was still playing catch-up.
"Oh, and by the way," the man added casually, as if they were standing in line at a coffee shop and not wherever this was, "you're on fire."
The words were delivered so calmly that they didn't register right away. Sawyer frowned in confusion, the delayed panic coiling in his gut.
"What?" he asked quietly, more to himself than anyone else. Then, slowly, almost unwillingly, he looked down.
His heart stopped.
Flames.
Real, ravenous fire danced across his body. Bright orange tendrils licked at his chest, coiling around his arms, creeping up his legs. For a moment, he was paralyzed, too stunned to react, his brain denying what his eyes were seeing.
Then the heat slammed into him—sudden, overwhelming, and vicious. It wasn't just pain. It was pure agony, sharp and all-consuming, ripping through every nerve like lightning. His skin felt like it was boiling from the inside out. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.
A scream tore out of him, raw and primal, bursting from his chest with the force of something ancient. It was the kind of scream that didn't have words—just the sound of pain made real.
The man didn't move. Didn't flinch. He merely chuckled under his breath, a low, amused sound that somehow lacked cruelty but also carried no trace of comfort.
Then, with a casualness that bordered on horrifying, he snapped his fingers.
Everything vanished.
The desert. The fire. The pain.
In its place was nothing.
Not darkness, exactly—no, this was beyond darkness. This was the kind of emptiness that devoured light and sound, the kind that made you forget what color and texture felt like. It was a void, infinite and absolute, with no up or down, no ground to stand on, no horizon to gaze toward.
Sawyer gasped, though there was no air, and no sound escaped. He was just there, suspended beside the strange man in a place that defied reason and physics.
And in that moment, as the silence pressed in and his body trembled with the memory of flames, Sawyer understood something he couldn't yet put into words.
This man—whoever or whatever he was—was not just playing a game. He was unraveling Sawyer, piece by piece.
"Who are you?" Sawyer demanded, his voice trembling, still raw from the scream that had burst from his throat just moments ago. The sound echoed faintly in the vast emptiness surrounding him, swallowed almost instantly by the nothingness that pressed in from all sides. Panic tightened its grip on his chest, making each breath feel shallow and insufficient. His eyes darted around, searching for some point of reference—anything solid—but there was nothing.
"Where am I? What is this place?" he continued, voice cracking under the strain of fear. The abrupt shift from searing fire to this infinite void had left his mind spinning, his sense of reality fractured beyond recognition.
"Calm down, kid," the man replied, his voice maddeningly steady, too casual for the situation they were in. His words floated effortlessly through the void, untouched by the echo that distorted Sawyer's own voice. He regarded Sawyer with a peculiar expression—one that held amusement, yes, but something deeper too. Recognition. Understanding. Something about that look made the hair on the back of Sawyer's neck stand on end.
Sawyer narrowed his eyes, struggling to focus. The man looked familiar, eerily so. His posture, the tilt of his head, even the rhythm of his breathing—it all felt too close, too intimate.
"I'm you," the man said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sawyer froze.
"What?" he asked slowly, the single word thick with disbelief. "Me?"
"Yeah," the man said, tilting his head slightly, as though studying a reflection in a funhouse mirror. "You. Same soul. Same spark. Different life."
"Like… me from the future?" Sawyer asked hesitantly, grasping at the only explanation that remotely made sense. His heart pounded in his chest, thudding hard against his ribs as he tried to anchor himself in anything real. "Is this some kind of dream?"
The man laughed softly—low and brief, but not mocking. If anything, there was a quiet tiredness to it. A weariness that came from having seen too much for too long.
"Pfft, no, silly. Future? Please." He rolled his eyes as if the idea was beneath him, then straightened up. "I'm you from the past. The fourth life."
Sawyer blinked.
It took a full beat before the words registered, and even then, they made less sense than the fire had. "The… fourth life?" he repeated, the phrase tasting strange and foreign in his mouth. The way the man said it—with reverence, with gravity—only made it more unnerving. "What does that even mean?"
He took a step back, though there was no ground beneath him, just the illusion of space. His hands were shaking now, faint tremors moving through his fingers, the adrenaline from the earlier trauma refusing to fade.
"Yeah, listen," the man said, suddenly shifting. The humor in his expression vanished like mist under the sun, replaced by sharp urgency. He stepped closer, and despite the void, the air between them felt charged.
"I don't have time to explain everything," he continued, his voice low, deliberate. "The connection's unstable—breaking faster than I expected."
Sawyer's breath caught in his throat. He didn't understand what was happening. The void, this man who claimed to be him, the talk of lives and unstable connections—it all felt like the unraveling of his sanity.
But the next words slammed into him with the weight of prophecy.
"You need to find Elise."
Sawyer frowned, his mind struggling to latch onto the name.
"Elise?" he asked slowly, as if saying the name would bring clarity. "Who is that?"
The man's eyes darkened, his expression twisting briefly with sorrow. "She's the key," he said. "She always was. Don't let them find her before you do."
And with that, the void shuddered.
"Elise? Who's Elise?" Sawyer asked, his voice rough with confusion, each syllable weighed down by frustration that had begun to solidify in his chest. The name rang hollow, a ghost without a memory. He combed through his thoughts, grasping for a face, a moment, even a whisper of recognition—but nothing came. It was like being handed the final piece to a puzzle he didn't remember starting.
"You know her," the man said firmly, his eyes locking onto Sawyer's with unsettling intensity. There was no doubt in his voice, no hesitation—only certainty, the kind that carried weight even when it made no sense. "Deep down, you do. You hid her somewhere important. Somewhere safe. But first…" his gaze flickered, "you have to close the desert door."
Sawyer blinked, thrown even further into disbelief. "Close what?"
"You already know how to do it," the man pressed on. "You've done it before."
Sawyer's hands clenched into fists at his sides. The pressure, the absurdity, the impossibility of this entire moment was cracking his composure open like a thin shell. His voice trembled, low and sharp with anger. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!" he snapped, louder this time. "This is insane. You're speaking in riddles—none of this makes sense!"
He took a step back, breath shallow, chest rising and falling with increasing speed. He felt like a puppet on invisible strings, pulled in directions he didn't understand, trapped in someone else's nightmare.
Then, without warning, the void around them began to fracture.
Fine, delicate cracks of white light split the blackness, spider-webbing in all directions, cutting through the dark like lightning caught in slow motion. The once-constant emptiness was no longer still—it was unraveling. The edges of Sawyer's vision pulsed with a growing brightness, hot and sharp.
The man's face tightened. The smugness was gone. So was the calm. What replaced them was grim urgency, the weight of time closing in.
"You're starting to wake up," he said, his voice suddenly strained, tinged with the ache of something unfinished. "They'll explain soon. Or… at least, they'll try. But before they do—" he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that still echoed like thunder, "—remember this, Sawyer, and remember it well…"
He grabbed Sawyer by the shoulders, eyes boring into his like fire through glass.
"Kill the sun and slow the process. Go to the red desert and kill the sun."
The words burned as they left his lips, branding themselves into Sawyer's consciousness like a prophecy—or a curse. The meaning was shrouded, veiled by mystery and desperation, but it clung to Sawyer's thoughts with a terrifying finality.
The oppressive void—the suffocating, endless darkness that had gripped Sawyer like a vice—fractured without warning. It cracked open with a soundless shatter, like brittle glass breaking under invisible pressure. The first thing that hit him wasn't a thought, or a feeling—it was light. Blinding, searing light that rushed in like a tidal wave, washing over everything in its path, erasing the weight of emptiness and dragging him, screaming, back into the fragile, aching reality of his body.
And in the middle of it all, that voice. Calm. Steady. Ancient.
"It is my duty, as it was for those who came before, to leave you a gift upon my passing," the man said, his tone laced with solemn gravity. His words held a weight that pressed down on Sawyer's chest, even as the darkness peeled away around them. But despite the heaviness of the moment, there was something in the man's eyes—a glint, a flicker—an unspoken joke he carried like a secret only he understood.
"We may never meet again in this cycle," he continued, his gaze never leaving Sawyer's, "not until you've reached the end of this particular life's journey."
A long pause stretched between them, and Sawyer could do nothing but stare. He was trying to anchor himself—trying to remember how to breathe, how to think. But the man tilted his head slightly, and a slow, almost impish smile curved across his face.
"I'll throw in a little extra, though," he said, with a wink that felt wildly inappropriate given the circumstance. "A small bonus, you might say—purely because I happen to like your face."
Sawyer barely had time to process the words. The surreal mix of kindness and insanity, gravity and humor, left him reeling. And then—without ceremony—the man reached forward and grabbed Sawyer's hand.
The pain was immediate.
Not sharp. Not cold. But molten. It roared through him like lava in his veins, scorching everything it touched. His back arched involuntarily. A strangled scream ripped from his throat—raw, guttural, and full of animal desperation. The agony wasn't physical alone. It went deeper, past the muscles and bone, into the very fabric of who he was. It felt like his soul was being branded.
Somewhere in the distance—no, not distance, not really—the void was breaking apart. Cracks of brilliant, holy light spread wide like a spider's web through the black. The brightness intensified with every heartbeat, every breathless second, until the light no longer poured through the cracks—it consumed them.
Sawyer threw up an arm, trying to shield his eyes, but it was no use. He was falling. Or maybe rising. The distinction didn't matter. Everything was noise and heat and light and then—
Cold.
A splash of ice-cold water slammed into his senses like a slap across the face. He gasped violently, the air cutting into his lungs like broken glass as he lurched upright.
His vision blurred, cleared, then blurred again. Shapes sharpened at the edges. Color returned. The pain receded, leaving behind a faint throb in his bones like an echo of the fire. His skin was wet. His clothes clung to him.
He blinked several times, trying to anchor himself in this new moment.
He was in a bathtub. A real one. Porcelain, clean, the kind you'd find in a hotel or a well-kept home. The air was humid, dense with the scent of soap, shampoo, and water that had recently been too still for comfort. The tiled floor around the tub was slick, gleaming under the bathroom light.
Everything felt so... ordinary. And yet nothing was.
He brought his hand up to his face, staring at his palm. It trembled.
Reality had returned—but it hadn't come alone.
A quick, disoriented glance downward confirmed what Sawyer's shivering skin already knew—he was nearly naked. Only a pair of plain black underwear clung to his damp body, the fabric soaked and sticking uncomfortably to him like second skin. He grimaced at the sensation, his brain still struggling to catch up to his surroundings. Everything felt distant, surreal, like fragments of a fever dream clashing with the tangible discomfort of cold, wet cloth.
Before he could even begin to question why he was in this vulnerable state—or where exactly he was—his attention was abruptly pulled elsewhere.
A man sat a few feet away, perched on a simple wooden stool like he had all the time in the world. There was no movement, no twitch of impatience or curiosity. He simply sat there, composed, still, watching.
His presence was striking—not because of anything flamboyant, but because of the precise, calculated way he occupied space. He wore a sharply tailored black suit that hugged his lean frame with crisp elegance. Every line of the garment spoke of discipline and detail, from the pressed collar to the perfectly folded pocket square. A vintage tie draped from his neck—deep red with stripes of gold that shimmered under the soft lighting, offering a flash of color against the otherwise somber palette.
And then there was the badge.
Polished metal, gleaming where the overhead light struck it, pinned proudly to the left side of his chest. It bore a logo Sawyer didn't recognize and bold letters engraved across its surface: DOF Supernatural Crimes and Management (SCM).
That name meant nothing to Sawyer.
But the authority it carried—how real it looked—was undeniable. And it only deepened the pit in his stomach.
The man smiled. Not the cold, smug smile of someone enjoying power over another—but something gentler, even warm. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners with a quiet patience.
"Well now," the man said, his voice smooth and composed, tinged with a dry amusement, "I was beginning to think you were going to take up permanent residence in that tub."
Sawyer blinked, dazed. The man's tone was calm, coaxing, like one would use with a scared animal or a sick child. And somehow, it reached past the fog in his mind and latched onto something. Something steady. Something real.
He made an effort to sit up, groaning as his muscles protested. His arms trembled beneath his weight, thin lines of water dripping from his elbows as he struggled to lift himself. His body felt wrong—like it didn't quite belong to him. Every movement was sluggish, delayed, like he was submerged in invisible syrup.
A strange tingling sensation buzzed under his skin—faint, almost imperceptible, but consistent. Like static crawling through his veins, or a nest of tiny insects shifting just below the surface. His stomach turned.
"What…" he began, his voice barely more than a whisper, cracked and hoarse like he hadn't spoken in days. "What did you… do to me?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it, ragged with confusion and fear.
His head spun. His vision danced between the sharp lines of the bathroom and a dim echo of the void he'd just left behind. It felt like he was caught in two places at once—his mind still tangled in the remnants of that strange encounter, while his body endured the stark chill of the present.
Unable to hold himself up any longer, he let his head fall back against the cold porcelain, breath shaky, heart racing. The tub cradled him again—not in comfort, but in resignation. The question still hung in the air, unanswered and heavy, as the man continued to watch him.
Not unkindly.
But definitely with intent.
"Ah, a little magical infusion," the man replied casually, his tone light and conversational, as if he were commenting on the day's weather rather than explaining the reason behind Sawyer's overwhelming physical confusion.
He moved with composed precision, reaching into the inner pocket of his finely tailored suit. The fabric, smooth and expensive-looking, didn't wrinkle under his movements. From within, he pulled out a piece of paper, neatly folded into an exact square. It made a satisfying rustle as he unfolded it, the sound unnervingly crisp in the quiet, tiled space.
Holding it close, he skimmed the text with a kind of performative nonchalance, nodding softly as if mentally checking off items from a list. "Let's see… it can cause headaches, dizziness, an unusual increase in appetite…"
He paused.
A single eyebrow lifted as his lips formed a faint smirk. His voice dropped slightly, coated in the faintest thread of amusement. "And, in more extreme cases…" He gave the words a bit of dramatic weight as he read the final line, "diarrhea."
Sawyer blinked at him, incredulous.
The man shook his head softly, chuckling under his breath as he folded the paper again with deliberate care, the same meticulous energy as before. He slid it back into his pocket like it was something sacred or fragile, and then muttered thoughtfully to himself, "Really?" The question hung there, more rhetorical than anything, spoken with a kind of bemused curiosity—as though magic still found ways to surprise even him.
Sawyer, still slumped in the tub, furrowed his brow. The surreal strangeness of the encounter pressed down on him, layering on top of the exhaustion and confusion already weighing heavily across his limbs. His thoughts were trying to catch up, trying to process the words, the symptoms, the paper… and then something else.
The man hadn't looked at the paper. Not really.
He stared at him for a long moment, studying the confidence in his movements, the lack of hesitation in his posture. It didn't add up. The badge, the suit, the practiced air of professionalism… but his eyes hadn't followed the paper.
"Aren't you…?" Sawyer started slowly, the words fumbling their way out of his mouth, uncertain and half-formed. He didn't want to offend the only person who seemed to know what was happening. His voice lowered a notch, cautious. "You're… blind?"
The man didn't flinch. Didn't tense.
"Blind?" he repeated, as if tasting the word again before acknowledging it. "Yes, I am."
His tone was remarkably even—no self-pity, no bite of defensiveness. Just a calm, grounded acceptance that made it feel like no more than a matter of simple fact. It wasn't an apology or a confession. It was just true.
And somehow, that made Sawyer feel even more off-balance.
"How could you…?" Sawyer's voice faltered again, the question hanging unfinished in the air, like smoke dispersing in silence. He struggled to connect the fading fragments of his mind—images of the endless void that had swallowed him whole, the searing light that had scorched his senses, and the memory of the man's cryptic words whispered in the emptiness. Everything felt out of sequence, like a dream remembered just out of reach. His body felt foreign, his skin still tingling with the lingering remnants of pain and magic.
The man across from him—calm, composed, effortlessly unreadable—let out a soft sigh. The sound was weary, like the slow exhale of someone who had carried far too many stories for far too long.
"It's a long and rather convoluted story, kid," he said, his voice steady but edged with something ancient, like rusted metal beneath polished silver. "One that we'll get to, I promise. But maybe not right now. You've just clawed your way back from the threshold. Let your mind settle a little. You're still halfway between dreams and real air."
Sawyer swallowed, the dryness in his throat making it feel like sandpaper. He tried to ground himself—to hold on to something real—but his thoughts were still a fractured mess. Then a flash of memory pierced the haze: dusty boots, a drawl, a familiar scowl beneath a battered hat.
"Where's the cowboy dude?" he asked, the question escaping before he could frame it properly. The name landed softly in the room, but it hit Sawyer with surprising weight. The image of Bonny's rugged face and wry smirk was a sudden anchor in a sea of confusion, and with it came a rising tide of worry.
"Cowboy?" the man repeated, brows lifting in amused surprise. Then his lips curled into a wide grin, and a genuine, unrestrained laugh burst from his chest. It filled the small bathroom like a gust of warm wind, unexpected but oddly comforting. "You mean Bonny?" he said through chuckles. "That's a new one! A cowboy. Damn, I'm absolutely going to have to tell him that. He'll get a real kick out of it."
Sawyer blinked, momentarily stunned by the shift in energy. The laughter was real, almost out of place in this sterile, tension-drenched space, but it cut through the fog around his thoughts like a knife through gauze.
"Well now," the man said, still smiling as he composed himself. His tone softened, becoming something almost like fondness wrapped in dry wit. "As for your 'cowboy dude,' as you so eloquently put it…" He paused for effect, leaning back slightly as if he were about to recount an old war story.
"Bonny is likely halfway across the world by now. Knowing him, he's probably already found some dimly lit bar in a back alley somewhere and is currently indulging in a bottle of the meanest, most unholy concoction known to the… well, as he affectionately calls them—'normals.'"
Joe chuckled again, quieter this time, but with an unmistakable warmth. There was something in the way he said Bonny's name—affection layered beneath exasperation, like an older brother talking about a sibling who never followed the rules but always found a way to survive.
Sawyer let the words settle around him. The absurdity of it all—voids, magic, cowboys, and supernatural agents—felt too strange to be real. And yet, the weight in Joe's voice, the clarity in his eyes, the way his laugh had cut through the tension… none of it felt fake.
For the first time since waking, something like reality began to take shape again. Messy, unbelievable reality—but reality all the same.
Sawyer's mind was a storm of chaos—an untamed whirlwind of questions that spun wildly with no answers in sight. Every thought slammed into the next, bouncing off the walls of his aching skull like ricocheting bullets. There was a dull, pulsing throb just behind his eyes, one that had grown into a brutal, unforgiving ache. It felt like someone was prying his head apart from the inside, methodically, with no intention of stopping.
With a strained groan, he pushed himself upward, lifting his head from the lukewarm water that half-filled the tub. His movements were sluggish, like swimming through wet cement. As his senses began to return—one cruel layer at a time—a sudden surge of nausea rose within him.
His stomach twisted violently. He tried to fight it, but it was useless. With a harsh retch, he leaned over and vomited onto the cool, spotless tiles beside the tub. The sound echoed through the sterile bathroom like a gunshot. His entire body shook from the force of it. Some of the acrid liquid splattered on the edge of a shoe—a polished, black leather one—too pristine, too expensive to belong in a room like this.
Joe's shoe.
"Ah, blast it all," Joe muttered under his breath, the earlier warmth in his tone dissolving into sharp-edged annoyance. He took a slow, deliberate step back from the mess. "Miss Mary is going to be absolutely livid."
Sawyer, still trembling and pale, tried to focus on the man's words. They came at him in fragments, disconnected and strange. Through the fog of pain, confusion, and humiliation, one particular name stood out.
"You mean… like Mary, the mother of Jesus?" he asked weakly, the words barely making it past his dry, cracked lips. His head lolled to one side, and the room spun in slow circles. The absurdity of the question struck him even as he said it, but everything felt off-kilter, unreal.
Joe glanced down at him and gave a dry chuckle, one eyebrow arching. "No, kid," he said, his voice colored with a kind of patient exasperation. "Like Mary, the cleaning lady. She's… particular about her standards of cleanliness. And she will make me suffer for this."
There was an awkward beat of silence that followed—just long enough for Sawyer to sink deeper into the fog—but Joe, ever composed, smoothly shifted the tone. He stepped forward again, crouching beside the tub with a soft grunt of effort and extending a hand.
"Anyways," he said, his tone softening into something more grounded, "I'm Joseph Walker. But most people around here just call me Boss or simply Joe." He tilted his head slightly. "I'd prefer it if you called me Joe."
Sawyer stared at the offered hand for a moment, unsure if he could muster the strength to even lift his own. After a few painful seconds, he reached out. Their hands met—Joe's grip was firm, but not forceful, the kind of handshake that communicated control without intimidation.
"Well, Joe," Sawyer muttered, the name foreign on his tongue, "I have the meanest headache you could possibly imagine—"
He didn't get the chance to finish.
Without warning, his entire body convulsed. It started in his spine, a sharp, snapping tension that ricocheted outward like a lightning strike. His muscles locked, then twisted violently, spasming with such intensity that he thought his bones might shatter under the strain.
The pain came next—immediate, raw, and total. It wasn't just in his head, or his limbs, or even beneath his skin. It was everywhere. It was in his teeth, his lungs, his blood. Each nerve felt like it had been doused in fire. He tried to cry out, to scream, to do something—anything—but his throat refused to cooperate.
The agony stole his breath.
His eyes bulged, mouth open in a silent, strangled attempt to scream.
"Fuck!" he finally managed to groan out through clenched teeth. The curse tumbled from his lips like gravel, scraped raw by the inferno inside him. It wasn't a word—it was a lifeline, the only sound he could make in that moment of unbearable torment.
Joe's expression shifted in an instant. He was moving now—fast, purposeful—but to Sawyer, everything began to slow.
His vision narrowed. The corners darkened, curling inward like burning paper.
And then came the cold realization: his body was shutting down.
He was going into shock.
He could feel it—feel himself slipping away.
And in that moment, he wasn't afraid. He was just... tired.
******
Notes: The Department of Water and Sanitation would like to remind all citizens that prolonged submersion in bathtubs is not an effective method for interdimensional travel or existential crisis management. Please consult a licensed professional for such matters. Also, our towels are for drying, not for questioning reality.