Ethan stood for a long while in silence.
He had done what he could. The blood was gone—or at least mostly. The water had turned dark, and the cloth stained beyond use, but the floor was dry, and the bathtub clean enough to pass as unused—if no one looked too closely.
The air still smelled of iron and soap.
But now came the bigger question.
Where was he?
Ethan crossed the room again, not rushing. His limbs were still stiff from the blood loss, and the pain in his neck hadn't faded. It pulsed with each step.
He moved toward the front of the room—toward what he assumed was the main door. It was a tall wooden frame, stained dark, with brass hinges and a cast iron handle that looked aged but well-maintained.
He paused a moment, then reached for it.
Click.
The handle turned.
But the door didn't move.
He frowned and twisted harder.
Nothing.
"...What the fuck," Ethan muttered.
He checked again—deadbolt? Latch? No. Nothing obvious. The lock didn't feel jammed.
After a few more tries, he gave up.
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Right."
If the front door wouldn't open, then maybe—
He turned back and moved toward the tall arched window. The heavy curtains had been drawn, but a sliver of soft light was beginning to peek through their edges. Morning.
He reached out and pulled the drapes aside.
Trees.
Endless trees.
Thick, high-trunked, with foliage dense enough to block much of the sky. Deep greens.
And then he looked downside.
Water—
A river, maybe ten meters below the window. Dark, smooth, and too wide to jump across. It hugged the structure like a moat, flowing steadily around whatever building he was inside. He couldn't see where it began or ended.
He leaned closer, squinting.
There was something in the water.
Movement.
Ripples. Then... a shape.
Long, wide, and slithering.
It glided across the surface slowly, just beneath the ripples—skin like dark stone, jagged along the back. Ethan's hand tightened on the curtain.
That wasn't a fish.
Something crocodilian, but larger. Its head surfaced for only a moment—then dipped again.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered.
This wasn't some house on the edge of town.
From the looks of it, this place was isolated. Maybe an estate in the middle of some deep forest, surrounded by water, far from roads or towns or even villages. He looked downward again—.
The window sat high, at least three floors up. A fall wouldn't kill him, probably—but it would break enough bones to leave him helpless for whatever was swimming down there.
He stepped back.
"This… doesn't look like anything from the memories," he whispered.
It wasn't adding up.
The room, the window, the message.
Even in Ethan Carson's memories—faint and fragmented as they were—there was nothing about a place like this. No mention of jungle-covered rivers, of tall estates in the woods. No beasts in the water. No reason to be here.
Was this a prison? A hidden research facility? A private mansion?
It was too quiet to be part of a city. He couldn't even hear birds. The silence had a texture now—like the world outside this room was holding its breath.
His eyes fell again on the edge of the doorframe.
A faint mark.
Barely visible in the dim morning light, but there—a smudge.No that wasn't smudge it was—
Blood.
Old or fresh, he couldn't tell.
It had been missed when he'd cleaned earlier.
He moved toward it, slowly.
Another drop clung to the corner of the frame, just where the door met the wall. Then another. Faint smears dragged across the surface in odd angles, like someone had reached for the door while bleeding out.
He stared for a moment.
Then exhaled.
"Let's finish this mess first," he muttered.
He turned, fetched the bucket and cloth again, and returned to the door.
He crouched, dipping the cloth in what clean water remained, then began scrubbing the bloodstains one by one.
His fingers moved slowly. There was something deeply surreal about it. Cleaning blood from a door frame. His own blood. Or the blood of the boy whose body he now wore.
He huffed a laugh under his breath.
'If someone walks in right now... what the hell am I supposed to say?' he muttered.
'That I'm just cleaning up my own death?'
The thought wasn't funny, not really. But something about it broke the tension.
He wiped the last smear with deliberate care, eyes flicking back to the door every few seconds.
It still didn't open.
He leaned back on his heels, sighing.
The room was cleaner now. At least visibly. But the questions remained.
Where was he? Why was he here? What had Ethan Carson gotten involved in?
He stood, returning the cloth to the bucket and setting it aside.
The pocket watch was still on the dresser.
He clicked it open.
6:00 AM.
Only three hours had passed since he first woke in the bathtub, gasping, bleeding.
Three hours.
It felt like longer.
He rubbed his eyes.
And then—
Click.
The sound echoed from the front door.
Not loud. Subtle. But unmistakable.
Ethan's heart skipped.
He stood still, staring at the handle.
Someone had unlocked the door.