He must have drifted off, because when he opened his eyes, the bathroom light felt miles away. The water was so dark it didn't even reflect his own face. He reached down to pull the plug, but his fingers met nothing but liquid. He reached further. Still nothing. The tub felt deeper. Much deeper.

A soft ripple disturbed the surface near his knees. Something cool and smooth brushed against his calf—not the plastic of a drain stopper, but something like a polished stone. Or a knuckle.

He dropped the heavy, charcoal-colored sphere into the steaming water. It didn't fizz with the cheerful, candy-colored bubbles of a standard bath bomb. Instead, it hissed, a low, tectonic sound that felt more like a warning. Thick, oily ribbons of obsidian unfurled from the center, swallowing the light and turning the porcelain tub into a fathomless pit.

Elias looked at the door, then back at the twin lights in the ink. He let out a long, shaky breath and sank deeper until the black water touched his chin.

"Don't go yet," the water murmured, the scent of sandalwood intensifying until it was all he could breathe. "The world is loud. The void is quiet. Stay another ten minutes?"