Miles didn't hesitate anymore.
He dropped the flamethrower back into its slot.
No fire. No plank.
He would swim.
Kayla grabbed his arm. "Miles—please—"
He shook her off. "Stay or follow. Your choice."
Without waiting for her answer, he stepped off the pier.
The cold punched him in the chest like a hammer.
The black water swallowed him whole, dragging him down so fast he couldn't tell which way was up. It was freezing, syrup-thick, pulling at his limbs like hands.
Hands.
Miles kicked hard, broke the surface with a gasp.
The lantern light behind him flickered wildly.
Kayla's silhouette trembled on the pier, fists clenched at her sides. For a second, he thought she would jump in after him.
She didn't.
Good.
Miles turned and began swimming toward the faint light on the far side of the reservoir.
The water was heavier than normal. Every stroke felt like pushing through a nightmare. His legs cramped. His arms burned. And always—always—he felt them.
The shapes beneath him.
Watching.
Whispering.
Remember. Remember. Remember.
A shape broke the surface ten feet away.
At first, it looked like a drowning man—skin bloated, hair plastered to a grey forehead.
But then its mouth unhinged sideways, a grotesque, gaping maw, and it shrieked.
The sound split the air, a jagged wail of grief and rage.
Miles sucked in a breath and dove.
Underwater, the world was worse.
More shapes.
Faces twisted into masks of sorrow.
Hands reaching, brushing his skin.
They know you.
They remember what you did.
He clawed his way forward.
Above, the light was getting closer — the raft floating aimlessly.
Another shape appeared ahead.
Not a monster this time.
A man.
Alive.
He clung weakly to the raft's edge, head bobbing in exhaustion. His voice was hoarse, broken:
"H-help... help me..."
Miles' mind spun.
Another survivor?
Or a trap?
He surfaced, gasping.
The man turned his head — a young guy, maybe late twenties, water dripping from a tangle of black hair.
Pale. Shivering.
"I—I can't hold on," he whimpered.
Behind him, the darkness shifted again.
The drowned were coming.
No time.
Miles paddled the last few feet, seized the guy's wrist, and hauled him onto the raft.
The wood groaned under their combined weight but held.
The man coughed violently, blinking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"Th-thank you," he rasped. "Name's... Levi."
Miles didn't answer at first.
He was staring out at the water.
The shapes were circling the raft now.
Waiting.
Waiting for a mistake.
The speaker crackled to life again from a post attached to the raft.
"Memory is a burden, Detective Rennick."
"Let go... or drown."
Another sign flipped up at the raft's base:
RULE #16: NOT ALL WHO DROWN DIE.
Miles looked at Levi.
Levi looked back, teeth chattering.
Real fear.
Real gratitude.
Or maybe another mask.
Everyone here wore one.
But Miles had already made too many choices he couldn't undo.
He pulled Levi closer onto the raft, grabbed the rusted oar tied to the side, and started paddling toward the faint light far ahead.
The drowned wailed behind them, their faces breaking the surface in grief and rage.
The raft shuddered forward through the endless black.
Miles wasn't alone anymore.
And somehow, that felt both safer—and far more dangerous.