The darkness on the other side is different.
It's not just a veil of shadows; it's a living abyss, a chasm that breathes and watches me.
Like the Black Gate of Mordor waiting for someone to cross.
The cold clings to my skin, crawls beneath my clothes, seeps into my flesh like icy fingers. My breath is ragged, strangled by thick air, saturated with a metallic scent.
The scent of dried blood.
And the silence... It's not the absence of sound.
It's a sound that devours all others.
As if reality itself is being swallowed whole.
Then Roch stops.
Abruptly.
No slowing down, no hesitation.
A deadly precise halt.
As if someone just cut the film.
I stare at him.
His back is straight, frozen. His energy has changed.
A shiver runs down my spine.
— Me: There's something fundamentally unsettling about the way he stops…
Slowly, he turns toward me.
His eyes are different now.
Deeper.
Heavier.
As if, for the first time, he truly sees who I am.
A hand lands on my shoulder.
A pressure. Heavy. Too heavy.
— Roch (calm, sharp): This is where we part ways, Brothers-la.
The ground slips out from under my feet.
— Me: Oh, really?!
My voice trembles. It's not a question. It's a cry from the heart.
— Me: You're serious? You're leaving me all alone here?!
His smile. Ice-cold.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
A smile of warning.
— Roch (dark): You're not a tourist, Pablo. You already have a guide. You must see your domain for yourself.
— Me: A guide? My domain?
The words hit me like a stray bullet in a dead-end alley.
I want to protest, demand an explanation.
Roch crouches down, drawing symbols in the dust.
A ritual.
The air shifts.
It contracts.
Reality bends.
Like a VHS tape at the end of its run.
— Roch (in a low voice, almost a prayer): There are rumors...
A jolt runs down my spine. Instinctively, my fingers tighten.
— Roch: Anomalies. Other travelers, users of a wisdom...
He leaves the sentence hanging, his gaze lost for a moment.
— Roch: From a different world.
His gaze locks onto mine. His breath slows.
Then, with a slow motion, he points to my phone.
As if touching a secret too hot to handle.
— Roch: Using the same... magic.
The word cracks the air. Dry. Precise.
Like a whip.
— Anomaly.
A word that weighs too much.
A title I don't yet understand.
A fate I cannot deny.
— Roch: They don't hide. They fight.
I feel the air vibrate around us.
Something invisible, but tangible.
— Me: Against what?!
Roch doesn't answer.
He stares at me, unmoving, his pupils gleaming in the dark.
Like the ice cream vendor waiting for me to make the right flavor choice.
Except here, there's only the scent of death.
The ritual complete.
He straightens up.
His shadow swallows me.
— Roch: If you want to understand... Follow this tunnel, then cross the Maccabees Forest.
— Me: The Maccabees Forest??! Wait, wasn't there a way to go through the Botanical Garden? Or the Five Senses Garden? Or better yet, International Slave Route Monument?
The very name crushes my stomach.
Then, one last murmur.
A hidden message beneath his stone-like voice.
— Roch: But be careful, Rasta... Not every camouade is a camouade.
And he disappears.
No sound.
No presence.
But my instinct screams that he never really disappeared.