The night before his flight had stretched into an endless, sleepless blur, and now the fatigue was seeping into his bones. Elias stood in the snaking line for security, clutching his passport with fingers that fidgeted unconsciously. His other hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, brushing against the card’s sleek surface. The contact sent a faint chill up his arm, a reminder of its presence, its weight—not physical but psychological.
The airport was alive with motion and sound, a chaotic symphony of life that Elias couldn’t seem to tune out. The boarding announcements echoed in fragments, disjointed and repetitive. The rolling clatter of luggage, the staccato tap of hurried footsteps, and the murmur of conversations in languages he barely recognized created a cacophony that made his pulse quicken. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow on the polished floors.
Elias’ eyes darted between the departure board and his phone, the latter still feeling like something out of a dream. Its design was flawless—polished to a mirror sheen, its performance so seamless it felt alive in his hands. He’d spent half the night marveling at its capabilities, playing with features he hadn’t known existed, as though trying to convince himself it was real. Now, in the harsh clarity of the airport, it felt both a triumph and an accusation.
His coat, a gift from The Seventh Circle, was the only thing that let him blend into this world of casual luxury. Beneath it, he wore a simple black hoodie and matching pants—comfortable but unremarkable. At his feet sat a battered duffel bag, its frayed edges and worn straps betraying its age and his lack of preparation. The good clothes, the ones that might help him pass as more than an imposter, were neatly packed inside, waiting for a moment that called for them.
As he surveyed the travelers around him, Elias couldn’t help but feel the sting of inadequacy. The businesspeople, their leather shoes gleaming and suits tailored to perfection, moved with a quiet authority. Couples in chic athleisure strolled hand in hand, their matching luggage sets rolling effortlessly behind them. Families juggled designer bags and strollers, their chaos somehow more polished than his deliberate attempts at order.
He glanced down at himself, his reflection faintly visible in the polished floor. The coat might have elevated him slightly, but he still felt like an interloper in this world of affluence and efficiency. His passport, its cheap plastic cover worn down from years of use, seemed like a relic compared to the sleek document holders others carried.
The line inched forward, and Elias adjusted his bag, suddenly hyperaware of the card in his pocket. Its presence was a double-edged sword, a promise of limitless potential and an anchor dragging him into uncharted waters. For a moment, he wanted to reach for it, to feel its hum against his fingertips, but he stopped himself.
Instead, he gripped the edges of his passport tighter, willing himself to stay grounded. The gate information on the departure board flickered, and he double-checked his phone to confirm the details. The screen lit up with a clarity that felt almost accusatory. He was leaving. Heading back to a place that once felt like home but now felt like a distant memory, blurred by years of struggle and disappointment.
And yet, as the line moved forward and he approached the security checkpoint, a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey wasn’t about returning. It was about beginning. Whatever that meant.
As Elias passed through security, the airport seemed to pulse with its own restless energy. The low hum of announcements, distorted by distance, melded with a tapestry of voices—English, Spanish, Mandarin, German—all weaving together into an unintelligible symphony. The chaos was hypnotic, a constant reminder of how small and unanchored he felt in this vast, international hive. Slinging his bag higher on his shoulder, he glanced at his phone, its screen glowing with sleek precision.
Flight CA942 to CDG, Gate 14.
The words settled in his mind like a mantra, something tangible to cling to in the overwhelming churn of the terminal. He muttered them under his breath, his lips barely moving as he followed the signs, his gaze flickering between the arrows and the sea of faces around him. Families with strollers navigated the labyrinthine space with weary determination; businesspeople marched with purpose, their shoes clicking like clockwork; tourists paused mid-stride, wide-eyed and lost, seeking direction from uniformed guards. The airport wasn’t just a place—it was a microcosm, a world unto itself.
As he approached Gate 14, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows came into view. Beyond them, the tarmac stretched out under the harsh glow of floodlights, a stage for the ceaseless ballet of arrivals and departures. A plane loomed just outside the glass, sleek and gleaming, its tail painted with a stylized constellation that seemed to shimmer in the artificial light. For a moment, Elias stopped, his breath catching at the sight.
“Wow…” he murmured, the word slipping out unbidden. The sheer scale of the plane, the quiet hum of its engines preparing for flight, was awe-inspiring in a way that left him momentarily adrift. It felt like a gateway to another reality, one he was still struggling to believe he belonged to.
The boarding area, however, offered no such reprieve. Every seat was occupied, the rows packed with travelers in varying states of anticipation and exhaustion. Families wrangled restless children. Couples huddled close, scrolling through their phones or whispering quietly. A cluster of young people laughed too loudly, their energy at odds with the heavy fatigue hanging over the room. Elias scanned the space but found no refuge, not even a corner to lean against.
Pulling out his phone again, he checked the email with his ticket details, scrolling absently through the fine print. Then a line caught his eye: First Class Lounge Access Included. He paused, his thumb hovering over the screen as the words sank in. First class. Right.
With a mix of curiosity and apprehension, Elias turned back the way he’d come, weaving through the throng of passengers. A man perched on his suitcase near a wall outlet glanced up briefly, his eyes dull with boredom, before returning to his phone. Elias stepped past him, rounding a corner—and there it was.
The entrance to the lounge was understated but unmistakable. Frosted glass doors stood beneath a softly glowing constellation logo, elegant and unassuming. Inside, he glimpsed a concierge desk staffed by impeccably dressed attendants, their poised smiles radiating quiet professionalism. The light beyond the doors was softer, warmer, casting a golden glow over the sleek interior. Everything about it exuded exclusivity—a world set apart from the noisy, fluorescent chaos of the gate.
Elias lingered, his hand tightening around the strap of his duffel bag. The sight of the lounge stirred something in him—envy, maybe, or awe. But there was something else, too, something deeper. A gnawing awareness of the gulf between himself and the people who moved through spaces like this with ease. The frosted glass might as well have been a barrier between two different lives.
Shaking off the thought, he turned away, his footsteps quickening as he moved back toward the gate. The allure of luxury tugged at him, but it felt like a bridge too far—a step he wasn’t ready to take. Not yet. The duffel bag on his shoulder felt heavier, grounding him in the reality of who he still was.
Elias slumped against the cold wall of the terminal, his duffel bag nestled by his feet. The chaotic energy of the airport pressed against him like a wave, relentless and indifferent. Around him, travelers hurried past, their conversations a muted hum in the background. In this liminal space, he felt untethered, like a shadow slipping unnoticed through the cracks of a brighter world.
He turned the new phone over in his hands, its pristine design catching the light in a way that seemed almost ostentatious. Every swipe across the screen was smooth, flawless, yet it felt alien—too perfect, like it belonged to someone else. Someone polished, successful, untouchable. Not him.
The man beside him, tethered to a wall charger, shifted on his suitcase before sliding down to sit on the floor. He was older, his scruffy jacket and worn sneakers suggesting a life spent on the road or perhaps just another sleepless night. Out of the corner of his eye, Elias noticed the man watching him, as though debating whether to speak.
“Need the outlet?” the man asked finally, nodding toward the single socket they seemed to share.
Elias blinked, pulled from his spiraling thoughts. “What?”
“The outlet,” the man repeated, gesturing at his charging phone. “Do you need it?”
“Oh. No.” Elias shook his head, holding up his phone with a faint, self-conscious shrug. “Fully charged.”
The man nodded and returned to scrolling on his phone, the brief connection dissolving into silence. But it wasn’t long before the man spoke again, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.
“That coat,” he said, tilting his head as he studied Elias. “It’s sharp. Where’s it from?”
Elias hesitated, glancing down at the sleek lines of the coat from The Seventh Circle. He still hadn’t fully come to terms with how it had appeared in his life, how he had stepped into it like stepping into another version of himself. “Uh… not sure,” he said finally. “It was… a gift.”
“Well, it’s stunning,” the man said, his tone genuine but carrying a thread of something else—curiosity, maybe. “You heading to Paris for the Devereux Gala?”
“The what?” Elias asked, his confusion spilling into an awkward laugh.
The man smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “I’ll take that as a no. It’s the event of the season. Fashion, art, high society—everything people like us don’t usually get invited to.”
Elias chuckled nervously. “Yeah, not exactly my scene.”
“I figured.” The man shifted to face him more directly, extending a hand. “Lloyd Thornton. Photographer. CFN.”
Elias hesitated, then took the hand, the shake brief but firm. “Elias Mercer.”
“Elias Mercer,” Lloyd repeated, drawing out the syllables with a theatrical flourish. “Sounds like a name that should be on a marquee. Or a dossier. James Bond, but edgier.”
Elias frowned slightly, unsure how to take the comment. “It’s just a name.”
“And a good one,” Lloyd said with an easy grin. “So, if not Paris, where’s home?”
The question landed heavier than it should have. “A small town near Split,” Elias said finally, the words careful, almost guarded. “It’s been a while.”
Lloyd nodded, his expression softening. “Ah, getting out of the city, then. I get it. This place can eat you alive.”
“It’s not that.” Elias shifted, his gaze distant. “I like New York. I just… need a break. A reset.”
The overhead speakers crackled, announcing, “Now boarding First Class.”
Elias stood, grabbing his bag with a quick nod to Lloyd. “That’s me.”
“First Class, huh?” Lloyd raised a brow, his grin widening. “Not bad, Mercer. You’re full of surprises.”
Elias didn’t reply, but before he could turn, Lloyd handed him a business card—crisp white with minimalist lettering. “If you ever decide to dip a toe into the fashion world, give me a call. I’ve got an eye for potential, and something tells me you’ve got it.”
Elias took the card, slipping it into his pocket alongside the one thing that had turned his life upside down. “Thanks, Lloyd. Safe travels.”
“You too, Mercer,” Lloyd said, leaning back with a wink. “Don’t forget—marquee name. Think about it.”
Elias walked toward the gate, his steps steady but his thoughts tangled. The weight of the card in his pocket was a constant reminder of the path he had stumbled onto, a path that didn’t feel like his own but was impossible to step off. The city buzzed on without him, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure he cared.
Elias stepped onto the plane, and immediately it felt as though he’d crossed into another dimension. The air was scented faintly with something luxurious—leather, maybe, or a hint of citrus—and the soft lighting cast a golden glow over everything, as if this place existed outside the reach of time. Two flight attendants greeted him, their polished smiles as pristine as their uniforms.
The uniforms were striking, tailored to perfection with sharp midnight-blue jackets adorned with subtle silver accents. A small starburst pin—the emblem of CelesteAir—caught the light on their lapels, and delicate constellation embroidery peeked from the edges of their scarves and pocket squares. The ensemble struck the perfect balance between professional and otherworldly, as if the attendants themselves were part of the curated atmosphere, celestial guides leading him into this elevated realm.
“This way, sir,” one of them said, gesturing with a graceful hand. Elias followed, the weight of the card in his pocket brushing against his skin with every step, its presence a silent reminder that none of this—none of it—was truly his.
The sliding doors parted, revealing the first-class cabin, and for a moment, Elias simply stood, absorbing the surreal opulence before him. This wasn’t just a flight; it was a sanctuary crafted for those who lived above the grind of daily existence. The lighting overhead transitioned in soft hues, mimicking a twilight sky, while the air seemed quieter, thicker, as if the chaos of the terminal had been left far behind.
Each seat was a private cocoon, curved partitions shielding passengers from the outside world. The leather upholstery was buttery and cool under his fingers as he hesitated to sit, and the polished rose-gold accents gleamed under the soft light. A chilled glass of champagne rested on the tray table waiting for him, its bubbles rising like whispers of a new life he didn’t quite believe he deserved. A leather-bound menu lay beside it, its embossed logo catching his eye, promising meals crafted by chefs he’d only ever seen on TV.
He lowered himself cautiously into the seat, the sensation both alien and intoxicating. His fingers brushed against the control panel, which offered more options than he thought possible—massage settings, lumbar support, ambient lighting. He adjusted the seat slightly, reclining just enough to feel the tension in his shoulders begin to dissipate, though the knot in his stomach tightened in contrast.
The cabin’s hush was broken only by the faint hum of engines preparing for takeoff. Through the spacious, tinted windows, Elias caught a glimpse of the airport beyond, its harsh fluorescent lights and endless streams of passengers a stark contrast to this oasis of calm. He glanced briefly toward the doors separating first class from the rest of the plane, imagining the cramped seats, the crying children, the lives he’d left behind in coach. For a moment, guilt licked at the edges of his thoughts. Did he even belong here?
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But then, the attendant appeared beside him, her smile warm, practiced, and oddly personal. “Mr. Mercer, welcome aboard. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your flight more comfortable.”
He nodded stiffly, unable to summon words, the sound of his name spoken so effortlessly catching him off guard. It felt like she was addressing someone else entirely, someone who might’ve belonged in this space.
The engines hummed louder, a steady vibration rippling through the cabin floor, and Elias let his head rest against the plush headrest. The faint clink of glassware and murmured conversations among the other passengers formed a backdrop of understated affluence. He stared at the untouched champagne, then at the closed menu, his reflection faint in the oversized screen embedded before him.
This was real. This was happening.
And yet, beneath the smooth surface of his thoughts, an unease lingered. The card in his pocket seemed heavier, as if it pulsed faintly against his chest, as though reminding him of its presence. As though watching.
The airport felt impossibly small after the gilded cocoon of first class. The hum of Split’s modest terminal was worlds away from the polished grandeur of Paris or the surreal opulence he’d experienced at 30,000 feet. It was as though he’d been transported from a dreamscape to a faded memory, the kind where the edges blur and nothing feels quite real.
Elias stood motionless near the baggage claim, the polished marble of the floor scuffed with years of wear. Travelers milled around him, their faces indistinct, their movements hurried but unremarkable. A few glanced at him—brief, disinterested looks, as though trying to place the anomaly of his stillness in the flow of their ordinary day. He felt untethered, as though he’d been dropped here by mistake.
The air carried a faint brine, a whisper of the sea that lay just beyond the airport walls. It should’ve been comforting—familiar—but instead, it clawed at the edges of his unease. This was home, wasn’t it? Or it had been, once. Yet standing here, gripping the handle of a bag far too expensive for this place, Elias felt like an intruder.
His fingers tightened on the leather strap of his carry-on as he moved toward the exit. The card nestled in his pocket felt heavier than the bag, pressing against his side like a question he didn’t want to answer. The whispers of the Benefactor’s presence seemed quieter now, distant but not gone, as though watching him from some unseen vantage point.
Stepping outside, the sunlight struck him with an almost physical force. It was sharp and unfiltered, unlike the muted glow of the first-class cabin or the pale, curated lighting of Paris. The heat wrapped around him, carrying the scent of salt and dry grass. A line of taxis idled nearby, their paint chipped and dull, a far cry from the sleek, black cars that ferried passengers in other cities. He hesitated, letting the moment stretch, as if crossing the threshold into this old world might undo the delicate balance of the new one he’d barely begun to grasp.
The driver barely glanced at him as he approached, his cigarette smoldering lazily between his fingers. “Gdje idete?” the man asked in gruff Croatian, his tone bored.
Elias froze for half a second, his mother tongue rolling over him like an unexpected tide. “Vis,” he replied, his voice rougher than he’d expected. He gave the address of the ferry terminal and climbed into the backseat, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to the upholstery.
The driveways silent save for the soft growl of the engine and the occasional crackle of the driver’s radio. Elias stared out the window, the city unfurling around him in a patchwork of faded stucco, terra-cotta rooftops, and the occasional splash of vibrant bougainvillea. It hadn’t changed much. Or maybe it had, and he was the one who no longer fit.
His phone buzzed softly in his pocket, the sleek new device a jarring reminder of the distance between this place and the life he was beginning to build—or was it unravel? He ignored it, letting the vibration fade into the noise of the road.
As the taxi neared the port, the sea came into view, vast and glittering under the late-afternoon sun. Waves lapped gently at the edges of the city, their rhythm unbroken, as though they hadn’t noticed his absence. The ferry waited, its white hull streaked with salt and rust, a stark contrast to the gleaming surfaces he’d left behind.
Elias exhaled slowly, stepping out of the car and into the heavy warmth of the afternoon. The driver unloaded his bag without a word, and Elias handed over a few bills—more than necessary, but he didn’t care to count. The man nodded, muttering a half-hearted “Hvala” before driving off, leaving Elias alone with the weight of the past pressing against the future in his pocket.
He stood at the edge of the dock, the sea stretching out before him like a question he couldn’t yet answer. Somewhere across the water was Vis, the island of his childhood, the place he’d once called home. Yet as he looked out at the endless horizon, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was caught between two worlds, neither one entirely his.
And somewhere, far beyond the waves, the Benefactor waited, silent but watching. Always watching.
The horn of the ferry bellowed again, cutting through the sea breeze as it pushed the ship further from the shore. The hum of engines reverberated through the deck beneath Elias’ feet, a steady pulse that seemed to sync with the rhythm of his own unease. He leaned into the railing, his fingers gripping the cold metal as if to anchor himself against the vastness of the open sea.
The waves frothed and crashed against the hull, their relentless motion a stark contrast to the stillness of the horizon. The blue expanse seemed endless, its surface shimmering with flashes of silver where the sunlight broke through the scattered clouds. Elias let his gaze drift toward the shrinking silhouette of Split, the city dissolving into a jagged outline of stone and concrete until it was swallowed by the curve of the earth.
Behind him, the shuffle of footsteps and quiet murmurs of passengers became a distant hum. The wind tugged at his coat, sending loose strands of hair whipping against his face. He closed his eyes, letting the salt air fill his lungs, but it wasn’t calming. It felt sharp, cutting through the fragile balance he was trying to maintain.
“You won’t see the Italian coast from here,” a voice said, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts.
Elias turned, startled. The woman standing a few feet away had appeared as if summoned by the sea itself. Her face was weathered, lines etched deeply into her skin like marks left by the tide. Her dark eyes sparkled, sharp and observant, framed by a scarf knotted tightly under her chin, its colors rich and earthy—reds, blues, and a hint of gold. She looked like she belonged to another time, her presence an unsettling contrast to the sleek modernity of the ferry.
“I wasn’t looking for it,” Elias said, his voice defensive and clipped.
She smiled faintly, her gaze unwavering. “Everyone is, whether they know it or not.”
The wind carried her words, soft but firm, and Elias felt them settle in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t respond, turning his gaze back to the water, though he could feel her watching him. There was a weight to her presence, an unspoken gravity that made it hard to ignore her.
“You’re going to Vis,” she said, not as a question but a statement of fact.
He nodded, his grip tightening on the railing. “Yeah.”
“Family?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, unwilling to elaborate.
She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re not from here anymore,” she said finally. “But you haven’t left it behind, either.”
Her words struck a nerve, raw and unguarded. Elias shifted uncomfortably, trying to shrug off the unease crawling up his spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The woman tilted her head, her smile faint and knowing. “You carry it with you. Like a shadow.”
Elias looked away, the sea suddenly feeling too vast, too open. “I don’t think you know anything about me,” he said, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended.
She chuckled softly, a sound that was neither amused nor mocking. “I know enough. Enough to see that you’re searching for something that won’t be waiting for you when you arrive.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Elias wanted to dismiss her, to tell her she was wrong, but he couldn’t. There was something about her presence—her voice, her certainty—that unnerved him.
She turned her gaze toward the horizon, her expression softening. “Vis doesn’t change,” she said, her voice quieter now, as if speaking to herself. “The streets, the sea, the faces—they stay the same. But you… You’ll see it differently. That’s what happens when you leave. You come back, and it’s all there, just as you left it. But nothing feels the same.”
Elias stared at her, the words settling deep in his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the truth in her tone was undeniable.
The woman adjusted the strap of her bag, her scarf fluttering in the breeze. “The sea doesn’t care about your troubles,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “But it listens, if you’re quiet enough.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, her figure merging with the ebb and flow of passengers scattered across the deck. Elias watched her go, her words echoing in his mind like the rhythm of the waves against the ship’s hull.
He turned back to the horizon, the expanse of water stretching endlessly before him. The island of Vis was still a distant blur, but her words lingered, sinking into him like stones dropped into the depths.
As Elias stepped off the ferry, the town of Vis unfolded before him, a quiet mosaic of sunlit brick, red-tiled roofs, and the faint buzz of life along the harbor. Once, this place had felt impossibly vast, a gateway to the world beyond his childhood. Now it seemed frozen in time, smaller somehow, like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. The scent of salt and seaweed mingled with the faint aroma of baking bread from a distant café, grounding him in the present as much as it pulled him back into the past.
Children darted near the water’s edge, their laughter sharp and quick as gulls swooped low over the boats. They glanced at him with curious eyes, their stares lingering just long enough to unsettle him. He adjusted the strap of his bag and made his way across the street, where a weathered sign marked the entrance to a rent-a-car office. The building stood stoic and unassuming, its facade worn by decades of Adriatic winds and relentless sun.
The door was heavy oak, resistant against his push. Inside, the cool air hit him like a whisper from another era. The room was a tableau of mid-century nostalgia: dark green walls adorned with faded photographs of Vis in bygone days, floral couches that sagged with the weight of time, and a ceiling fan turning with languid indifference. The scent of old leather and pine cleaner lingered in the air.
Behind the counter, a woman stood, her figure framed by the stark light of a desk lamp. She looked up slowly, her expression guarded but not unkind. Her face was weathered, her eyes sharp with a discerning edge that missed nothing.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted in English, her voice low, deliberate, and tinged with a faint curiosity. The clock on the wall read 2 p.m., but her tone carried the weight of late hours and long days.
“I need a car for a few days,” Elias said, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other. His voice felt small in the quiet room, unsure of its place.
She arched an eyebrow, flipping open a ledger that looked as ancient as the photographs on the wall. “We’ve got a Honda. And a Yugo,” she added with the barest flicker of amusement. “Depends on where you’re going.”
“I’m not here for tourism,” Elias said, his voice tightening. “Visiting family.”
At that, her demeanor shifted. A slow smile crept across her face, and she switched to Croatian, the words rolling off her tongue with the warmth of familiarity. “Family, eh? Why didn’t you say so?”
Elias hesitated. “I didn’t think it was… important?”
“Who’s kid are you?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, her tone conspiratorial.
“Jela and Toma, from—”
“From Viljane?” Her eyes lit up with recognition before he could finish. “You’re Eli!”
The name struck him like a jolt, the diminutive version of his own sounding foreign in her voice. Before he could react, she stepped around the counter, sizing him up like a relic she hadn’t expected to see again.
“I knew you when you were this tall!” She gestured to her knees with a laugh. “You don’t remember me, but your mother and I always met at the market. You adored her fish sticks.”
Elias forced a chuckle, his mouth dry. “That’s me.”
She leaned back slightly, her arms crossed, a knowing smile never leaving her face. “How’s America treating you?”
“It’s… different,” Elias replied, the words feeling hollow. “Work’s been tough, but I needed a vacation.”
She laughed again, a warm, raspy sound. “Well, here’s your escape, kid. Keys to a Flat. It’s parked out front in the harbor lot. Bring it back in one piece.”
“Don’t you need my ID or something?” Elias asked, blinking in surprise as she slid the key across the counter.
She waved him off. “I knew you when you were in diapers. That’s enough ID for me. Tell your mother I said hello.”
“Will do,” he murmured, pocketing the key.
“God bless you, kid,” she added with a chuckle, her gaze lingering as he turned toward the door.
The warm Adriatic sun greeted him again as he stepped outside. True to her word, a red Flat waited in the harbor lot. Its paint gleamed like a relic lovingly preserved, though its boxy frame and outdated curves betrayed its 90s origins. Elias approached it cautiously, unlocking the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. The air inside smelled of sun-warmed vinyl and faint traces of salt.
For a moment, he sat there, gripping the steering wheel, his thoughts an indistinct blur. The past and present felt tangled here, the boundaries between them frayed and uncertain. The engine coughed to life with a reassuring rumble, and as he pulled onto the narrow streets of Vis, the town began to fall away behind him. Stone facades gave way to thick green forests and the jagged coastline, the sea stretching endlessly beside him.
The road ahead felt both familiar and alien, like the reflection of a place he thought he knew. But with each passing kilometer, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t just heading toward a destination—he was driving straight into something far more elusive and unknowable.