You Want Me to Do What?!": Sawyer's Audition for World-Saving (Spoiler: He Bombs), Mind-Reading Mayhem, and a Desert That's Apparently Not Just for Cacti.
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Author Note: Well, that escalated quickly! Sawyer's not exactly thrilled with his new job description, Joe's got some serious boundary issues (and psychic abilities!), and the local wildlife appears to be sporting custom diving gear. Get ready for teenage angst, existential dread, and a whole lot of "wait, what?"
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"You want me to do what?" Sawyer blurted out, his voice cracking with incredulous disbelief.
The words seemed to slice through the heavy air of Joe's office, amplified by the sudden hush that had fallen over the room. For a moment, even the faint hum of the overhead lights felt oppressively loud against the raw silence that followed.
Sawyer shoved his chair back abruptly, the legs screeching across the polished floor with a harsh, grating sound that made several people in the room flinch. The noise wasn't just an accident — it was a raw, physical manifestation of the turmoil churning inside him, a chaos he couldn't find the words to fully express.
His mind betrayed him then, flashing back to the horrific scene from earlier — the blood, the screams, the soldiers being torn apart with a sickening wetness by those monstrous red-scaled creatures. It all replayed in brutal, unforgiving detail behind his closed eyelids. He could almost smell the iron tang of blood in the air again.
A tight knot of fear twisted deep in his gut, coiled so tightly it felt like he might throw up. And beneath the fear, hotter and harder, burned a sharp-edged indignation. How could they expect him — a confused teenager, a newcomer to all of this madness — to step into that nightmare again?
"Easy, kiddo, just calm down for a second," Joe said quickly, his voice dropping into a soothing register.
He held up both hands, palms open in a universal gesture of peace, as he took a slow, careful step closer. There was something almost paternal in his movements, the way he softened his posture, trying to project safety and control.
He reached out, extending one hand with the obvious intention of resting it reassuringly on Sawyer's arm.
But Sawyer jerked back instinctively, his entire body stiffening as if electricity had shot through him. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely heard the quiet sigh that escaped Joe's lips.
Every muscle in Sawyer's frame locked into place, a silent refusal, a desperate attempt to create even a shred of space between himself and the pressure threatening to crush him.
Joe didn't force the contact. His hand dropped back to his side, but his expression hardened with a quiet determination.
"You're the only one who can close the gate, Sawyer," he said, keeping his voice steady but firm, lacing every word with a calm authority that left no room for argument.
"The gate — it's keyed to your magical signature now. It will only respond to you. No one else. That sigil you bear, a sign of an Enforcer, the one branded into you by fire, it's the key."
Joe's gaze held Sawyer's, unyielding.
"You are the key," he said softly, as if speaking the truth aloud might somehow anchor Sawyer to it. "And whether you're ready or not... that gate won't wait for anyone else."
Sawyer shook his head vehemently, the motion so forceful it bordered on frantic.
His wide, glassy eyes shone with a potent cocktail of fear, confusion, and utter disbelief, emotions crashing over him in suffocating waves.
"I can't go there," he stammered, his voice raw and trembling, betraying the sheer terror that had taken hold of him. His words barely made it out, each syllable strained, as if speaking them aloud somehow made the nightmare more real.
"You saw what happened on that screen!" he burst out, his hands clenching into tight, helpless fists at his sides. "Those soldiers… they were ripped to shreds in seconds!"
The images replayed in brutal detail behind his mind's eye — flashes of blood, twisted limbs, the agonized screams that had been abruptly cut short.
"You're asking me to walk straight into that!" he cried, his voice breaking under the weight of the horror. "You're asking me to walk straight into certain death, to become nothing more than monster food!"
The room seemed to shrink around him, the air growing heavier with each breath he struggled to draw.
Joe remained calm, almost painfully calm, his hands still spread in a non-threatening gesture. He didn't flinch at Sawyer's outburst, didn't look away. His voice stayed even, firm, but there was an edge of urgency threading through it now.
"We wouldn't send you in unprepared, Sawyer," Joe said carefully, every word deliberate, measured, like he was trying to guide a frightened animal out of a trap without spooking it further.
"We're sending our best fighters with you. Highly trained. Incredibly experienced."
He took a step forward, slow and unthreatening, as if to physically bridge the growing distance between them.
"They've faced far worse than those… uh… desert denizens," he added, a slight grimace flashing across his features as he acknowledged the horror they were up against. "Their sole job will be to protect you, to make damn sure you reach that gate in one piece."
Joe's voice softened, threading hope into the thick, suffocating atmosphere.
"All you have to do is get to the gate. Perform whatever action is necessary to close it."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment before delivering the final line, almost like a prayer.
"And then you can go right back to your normal life. As if none of this ever happened."
The promise dangled there, fragile and shimmering, a desperate lifeline tossed out into the rising storm inside Sawyer's chest.
But it wasn't enough.
Sawyer stared at Joe, the disbelief etched so deeply into his face it almost looked like a physical wound.
"Normal life?" he repeated slowly, his voice low, ragged with emotion.
The words twisted out of him, dripping with bitter irony, heavy with a sarcasm born from sheer, helpless rage.
He took another involuntary step backward, his battered sneakers scuffing lightly against the floor, instinctively putting more distance between himself and the calm, reasonable man who was, without a flicker of doubt, asking the impossible.
Another shake of his head, smaller this time but no less desperate, rattled through his whole body.
His heart hammered wildly against his ribs, so violently it hurt, like a trapped bird battering itself against a cage it couldn't escape.
There was absolutely no way.
No way he was willingly walking into that Red Desert. No way he was stepping into the nightmare they had so neatly packaged and handed to him.
No way in hell.
He didn't know these people — these strange, dangerous people who spoke of magic and monsters as if it were just another day at the office.
He didn't owe them anything. Not loyalty, not trust, and certainly not his life.
And he sure as hell wasn't about to risk everything for a bunch of strangers in a world that, just hours ago, had seemed like a terrifying dream — and now felt like a living, breathing nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
Joe let out a heavy sigh, a sound thick with frustration, weariness, and a touch of sadness that hung heavily in the air between them.
The sigh wasn't just noise — it was a small, weary confession of how deeply he hated having to say what he was about to say, how burdened he was by the weight of knowledge he carried. His gaze didn't waver as he followed Sawyer's instinctive retreat, watching the younger man back away as if physical distance could somehow shield him from the terrible truth he was being asked to accept.
"I know what you're thinking right now, Sawyer," Joe said, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos swirling inside Sawyer's mind.
The words hit harder than they should have, snapping Sawyer out of his frantic spiral of thoughts.
He froze mid-step, his back thudding against the cool, unyielding surface of the wall. The sensation grounded him momentarily, but suspicion surged violently through his veins.
His eyes narrowed, his body tense and rigid, every instinct on high alert. How could this man — this stranger — possibly know what he was thinking?
Was this another trick? Another manipulation?
Joe didn't stop. He pressed forward, not physically aggressive, but emotionally relentless.
"Yes," he continued, lowering his voice to a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone, as if confessing some deeply guarded secret.
"That's… well, that's one of my abilities. I can read minds, Sawyer."
He delivered the admission plainly, without bravado, without arrogance — just simple, tired honesty.
"It's not always pleasant. Believe me," Joe added, a flicker of old pain crossing his face, as though the burden of other people's thoughts had left scars no one could see.
"But more importantly…" He paused, taking a careful step closer, his entire posture shifting from commanding to pleading, from authority figure to a man desperate to be believed.
"In this situation, I can also see… glimpses of the future."
The air between them seemed to thicken, as if the world itself was bracing for what would come next.
Joe's tone deepened, losing all the earlier calm he had so carefully maintained. It grew heavier, rougher, weighted with the kind of dread that only comes from witnessing horrors you cannot prevent.
"And trust me, kid," Joe said, his voice nearly breaking, "the future I saw… the one that unfolds if we don't manage to close that gate… it's not a good one. Not by a long shot."
His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as though he was trying to hold back more than he dared to say aloud.
"It's a nightmare, Sawyer. The world you know — your cities, your streets, your homes — it all burns."
Joe took another cautious step closer, not as a superior, but as a man trying to extend an olive branch across an impossible divide.
"Everything is destroyed. Consumed."
He swallowed thickly, a rare crack showing in his otherwise stoic exterior.
"No one survives, Sawyer," Joe said softly, almost reverently. "Not a single soul."
There was no dramatic flourish, no exaggeration, just the cold, merciless certainty of a man who had already seen the end and carried the unbearable knowledge of it inside him.
Slowly, almost gently, Joe reached out once more.
This time, Sawyer didn't flinch away.
Joe's hand settled on Sawyer's shoulder, firm yet careful, the gesture filled with a heavy kind of warmth — an anchor to a reality Sawyer desperately wished he could run from.
Their eyes locked, and in Joe's gaze, Sawyer didn't just see desperation.
He saw guilt. Fear. Hope.
The emotions were raw and unhidden, flashing across Joe's face like lightning on a dark horizon.
"I get it, Sawyer," Joe said, his voice rough with sincerity. "You're scared. You have every damn right to be. Anyone in your shoes would be absolutely terrified."
He gave Sawyer's shoulder the faintest squeeze, not pushing, just grounding him, offering a tether in the storm.
"But this…" Joe continued, voice low, urgent, "this isn't just about me. Or about this facility. Or even about these strange, impossible things you've been forced to witness."
Joe leaned in slightly, his words almost a whisper now, burning with truth.
"This is about everything. The fate of your world. My world. Everyone we know. Everyone we don't. It all rests on this."
Joe pulled back slightly, enough to give Sawyer space to breathe, to think, to choose.
"I'm not asking you to decide right now," he said, his tone softening even further. "I'm giving you time. A night. Think it over. Process what you've seen. What you've heard. What you feel."
Joe released his grip, stepping back respectfully, the invisible weight of the moment lingering in the space between them.
"Tomorrow morning, we'll talk again."
The promise was simple. No more pressure. No more demands. Just time — precious, fleeting time.
And with that, Joe turned away, leaving Sawyer to wrestle with the impossible choice that now lay heavy in his hands.
Joe stepped back, his hand slipping away from Sawyer's shoulder in a slow, deliberate motion, as if reluctant to sever the fragile thread of connection he had managed to weave between them.
He held Sawyer's gaze for a moment longer, offering a small, almost imperceptible nod — a silent promise that, for now, the pressure would ease. Then, without looking away, he shifted his attention toward Zara, who had been standing silently nearby throughout the entire exchange.
Zara's posture was rigid, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her face an unreadable mask. If she felt anything about the scene unfolding in front of her, she gave no indication. She could have been carved from stone for all the emotion she showed.
"Zara," Joe said, his voice clipped and professional, a stark contrast to the raw emotion that had colored his words moments ago. The urgency was gone, replaced by a colder, more detached authority. "Show him to his room."
The order hung in the heavy, oppressive silence that filled the room, pressing down on all of them like an invisible weight.
Zara gave a single, curt nod in response, her movements sharp and efficient, as if she had been waiting for the command all along. Her expression didn't change. No sympathy. No judgment. Just silent compliance.
Turning to Sawyer, she extended one hand in a precise, almost mechanical gesture — a simple beckoning motion that somehow managed to feel both commanding and impersonal. She didn't say a word.
Sawyer's heart thudded painfully in his chest, a slow, heavy rhythm that echoed in his ears. His body remained frozen, his feet refusing to move, as if anchored to the floor by the sheer gravity of what he had just heard.
He couldn't think straight.
Couldn't breathe properly.
His mind was a chaotic whirlwind of fragmented thoughts, emotions crashing into one another — fear, disbelief, anger, guilt — a violent storm he couldn't escape.
The fate of the world?
The complete annihilation of everything he knew?
The responsibility for stopping it all… falling on him?
It was absurd. It was insane. And yet, the look in Joe's eyes, the heavy certainty in his voice — it had felt real in a way that terrified Sawyer more than anything else.
Still, he couldn't move.
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, the silence stretching unbearably, thick enough to choke on.
Finally, a ragged, defeated sigh escaped him — low, trembling, the sound of someone realizing they had no good choices left.
His shoulders slumped slightly, the invisible weight settling even heavier on his frame, bending him under a burden he hadn't asked for and didn't know how to carry.
With an almost mechanical motion, as if his body was moving while his mind still screamed in protest, Sawyer forced himself to lift one foot and then the other, taking an unsteady step forward.
The movement broke the spell.
Reluctantly, heavily, he fell into a slow, uneasy rhythm behind Zara, his steps echoing faintly in the large, sterile office.
He didn't look back at Joe.
He didn't want to see the truth reflected again in that man's eyes — the truth that no matter how much time he was given, no matter how much he wanted to refuse, the world was still burning.
And somehow, impossibly, he had been chosen to stop it.
The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing Sawyer's old life on the other side and leaving him to follow Zara into the cold, uncertain darkness of whatever future awaited him.
For now, he needed time — desperately, achingly needed it — but time was quickly becoming a rare and precious commodity in this bewildering new existence he had been thrust into.
The events of the past hour whirled chaotically in his mind, an overwhelming, tangled storm of questions without answers. Sawyer felt like a man caught in the undertow of a vast, uncharted ocean, struggling to find the surface, gasping for a single, clear breath of understanding.
Nothing made sense.
The weight of the responsibility Joe had placed on him was suffocating. The idea that he — an ordinary teenager — was somehow supposed to save not just himself, but an entire world, was so absurd that his mind recoiled from it, trying to reject the very notion.
He needed space to think, to feel, to comprehend the sheer impossibility of it all. But this place, with its cold walls and oppressive silence, gave him no room to breathe. No room to run.
Ahead of him, Zara moved with a precision that bordered on mechanical. Her boots clicked softly against the polished floor as she led him away from Joe's imposing office and into the depths of the sprawling facility.
The corridor stretched endlessly before them, dimly lit by narrow strips of fluorescent light that buzzed faintly overhead. The air was cold and dry, carrying with it the sterile, metallic scent of a place too well-ordered to be natural.
Sawyer stumbled slightly, struggling to match Zara's effortless, measured pace. The walls on either side seemed to close in around him, lined with door after identical door, each indistinguishable from the last — a labyrinth designed to disorient and swallow the unprepared.
As they turned a corner, they passed a large, windowed section of the building. Sawyer slowed, almost stumbling to a halt, as his eyes were drawn toward the surreal sight beyond the glass.
Inside was a desert training center, a sprawling simulation of an endless wasteland. Artificial sandstorms raged within it, the violent gusts whipping up fine grains of sand and scraps of debris into a chaotic, blinding tempest. The scene was eerily beautiful and utterly alien, like something torn straight out of a fever dream.
Zara didn't even glance at it.
She continued onward, unbothered, leaving Sawyer to tear his gaze away and hurry after her.
Further down the corridor, they passed an enormous aquarium built into the wall. Here, the bizarre sights only deepened the sense of unreality pressing down on Sawyer's chest.
Strange, bioluminescent sharks drifted through the murky water, their sleek forms glowing in hues of blue and green that shimmered with every slow, predatory movement. Even more unsettling were the miniature, custom-made diver suits each shark wore — intricate armor plates and helmets that clung to their bodies, turning them into something between creature and machine.
Sawyer's skin crawled with unease.
Whatever this place was, it wasn't just military. It wasn't just scientific. It was something far stranger, far more dangerous than anything he had ever imagined.
And yet Zara gave no sign that any of it was remarkable.
She moved on, silent and composed, as if she had walked this bizarre path a thousand times before.
They passed several darkened rooms, each door tightly closed, each one exuding an ominous energy that seemed to seep into the hallway itself. Sawyer could feel it — a low, almost inaudible hum that vibrated in his bones, setting his teeth on edge.
Something terrible lurked behind those doors.
He didn't know what it was, and he didn't want to know.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled with instinctive fear as he quickened his steps, drawing closer to Zara, who remained an indifferent guide through this corridor of quiet horrors.
Sawyer swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising tide of dread clawing up his throat.
He had wanted time to think.
But here, surrounded by the impossible, the grotesque, and the unknown, all he could think about was how deeply, irreversibly lost he already was.
Finally, after what felt like an endless, disorienting journey through the cold, sterile corridors, they arrived at a nondescript door tucked away at the very end of the hall.
Zara moved with the same mechanical precision she had shown all along, slipping a thin key card from the pocket of her jacket and sliding it into the electronic lock. A soft beep, followed by a faint mechanical click, broke the heavy silence between them. Without a word, she pushed the door open, revealing the room beyond.
Sawyer peered past her shoulder, his body tense, unsure of what awaited him on the other side.
The room was modest, unremarkable in every sense of the word — a small, square space with a single bed, a plain desk, a metal wardrobe shoved against one wall, and a small adjoining bathroom.
"We... tried to make the room more... human-friendly," Zara said at last, her voice clipped and devoid of any genuine feeling.
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't even a reassurance.
It was simply a statement, offered more out of protocol than any real concern.
Before Sawyer could even think to respond, Zara turned sharply on her heel and walked away, her boots clicking rhythmically against the floor, her silhouette disappearing swiftly around the corner.
She didn't look back.
Not once.
Sawyer was left standing there, framed in the doorway, feeling oddly abandoned despite having barely known her.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
He just stood there, one hand braced against the doorframe, his body weighed down by exhaustion and a deep, gnawing sense of displacement that only seemed to deepen the longer he stared into the room.
Slowly, he allowed himself to step inside, the door hissing softly as it swung shut behind him.
He exhaled a long, weary breath, the sound ragged with fatigue and a confusion he could no longer hold back.
His eyes roamed the room, cataloguing each sparse, utilitarian detail. The bed was neatly made, the sheets stiff and clinical, as if prepared more for the idea of comfort than the real thing. The desk was bare, save for a small, dim lamp and a computer. The wardrobe stood closed, likely empty.
Human-friendly.
The words echoed in his mind with a dull, bitter irony.
He knew what they meant — what she meant.
That's all he was to them: a human. Nothing more. An anomaly in a world that no longer played by human rules.
Sawyer dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the grime and sweat of the day clinging stubbornly to his skin. His reflection caught faintly in the polished surface of the wardrobe, and for a second, he barely recognized the weary, haunted face staring back at him.
He didn't belong here.
Not in this sterile, alien place. Not among beings who moved through walls of reality like smoke, who wore armor over their scales, who spoke of the end of the world as if it were a mundane topic over coffee.
He needed to get back.
Back to his world.
Back to his normal life — where monsters didn't hide behind friendly smiles, where the most he had to worry about was passing his exams or catching the bus on time.
A sharp ache stabbed at his chest at the thought of Aiden — his best friend, his grounding point.
Aiden, who would no doubt scoff and laugh at the idea of mind-reading supervisors and glowing sharks in suits. Aiden, who would find some sarcastic way to make it all seem a little less impossible, a little less terrifying.
The thought of him — of normalcy, of something real and familiar — was like a tiny flame in the overwhelming dark.
It didn't fix anything.
But it kept him from completely unraveling.
Sawyer pulled the desk chair out with a faint screech of metal on tile, collapsing into it with a heavy thud, his head sinking into his hands.
He needed time.
He needed to think.
He needed to figure out how the hell he was going to survive in a world that had long since stopped making any sense.
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The room itself, he had to admit, wasn't bad.
In fact, it was almost... welcoming — or at least as welcoming as anything could feel in the surreal nightmare his life had become.
Compared to the cold, sterile, suffocating atmosphere of Joe's office, this space felt almost like a sanctuary. A place where he could breathe again, if only for a little while.
It was larger than he had expected, wide enough that the air didn't feel like it was pressing in on him. There was a sense of openness, a simple freedom of movement, that he hadn't realized he was craving until now.
The bed was the first thing that caught his weary eyes — high and inviting, draped in soft, dark linens that seemed to drink in the dim light rather than reflect it. It looked impossibly comfortable, like it could swallow him whole if he let it, and for a brief second, he imagined collapsing into it and letting sleep wash everything away.
Subtle blue LED lights were embedded discreetly along the headboard, their glow muted and steady, casting long, slow-moving shadows across the plain walls. The way the shadows shifted gently, like restless ghosts, gave the room a strange, almost underwater quality, soothing in a way he hadn't expected.
To the right, a sleek, minimalist desk stood against the wall, a modern computer setup humming quietly on its surface. Everything about it was sharp, clean, efficient — alien in its perfection.
A large wardrobe made of dark wood anchored the far side of the room. Its doors were closed, but he guessed it probably contained clothes — though whether they would fit him, or whether they were something he would even want to wear, was another question entirely.
On a modest shelf by the wall, books lined the narrow planks in uneven clusters. Some of the spines bore titles in technical jargon he barely recognized — dense, scientific things he was sure he wouldn't understand even on a good day. Others were filled with symbols and characters he couldn't even place, languages that looked ancient and otherworldly, twisting across the bindings like living things.
And then there was the table.
It was small and circular, tucked almost awkwardly into one corner of the room, like an afterthought. Sitting atop it was an old-fashioned telephone — the kind with an actual handset and numbered buttons — looking completely out of place among the sleek technology surrounding it.
But it wasn't the phone that stole his breath.
It was what lay beside it.
A small, pitiful collection of his own belongings.
Items he recognized immediately — things so achingly familiar they felt like a physical blow.
There were his sneakers, scuffed and dirty from the chaos of the day. His backpack, slightly torn at the seams, slouched against the table leg like a wounded animal. His phone, cracked across the screen but still stubbornly lit, its battery clinging to life.
And there, laid across the table with chilling precision, were his surgical scrubs.
Green, bloodied, torn through in several places — the fabric stiffened in patches where blood had dried and set like brittle glue.
Sawyer's stomach twisted.
For a long, awful moment, he couldn't move.
He could only stare, his mind dragging him back — back to the screams, the flashing lights, the suffocating scent of burning antiseptic and coppery blood filling the air.
Slowly, almost against his will, he stepped closer and reached out with trembling fingers.
The fabric felt rough against his skin, foreign in a way it had never felt before.
The faint, lingering scent of antiseptic clung stubbornly to the material, but underneath it was something else — a sharper, metallic tang that made his chest tighten.
Blood. Fear. Loss.
The memories clawed at the edge of his mind, too fast, too vivid.
He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the sudden wave of nausea rising in his throat.
This wasn't just a piece of clothing.
It was a shroud.
A reminder of the life he had known — and the life that had been ripped away from him without warning, without mercy.
He dropped the fabric as if it had burned him, stepping back with a shaky breath, his pulse hammering violently in his ears.
This room, for all its attempts at comfort, could not erase what had happened.
And it could not promise that worse wasn't still to come.
Sawyer, driven by a sudden, overwhelming need to shed the remnants of the day's bizarre and exhausting events, made his way toward the large wardrobe standing solemnly against the wall.
Its polished wooden doors gleamed faintly under the muted blue glow of the LED lights, the soft illumination giving the surface an almost liquid sheen. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers brushing the cool handle, as if half-expecting something strange to leap out at him.
With a quiet breath, he swung one of the doors open.
Inside, the wardrobe revealed a neatly arranged collection of clothing. Nothing extravagant. No cloaks, no robes stitched with mystical runes, no armor gleaming with hidden power — just an assortment of plain, practical garments.
Several pairs of jeans hung stiffly side by side, their denim varying only slightly in shade. A small stack of solid-colored t-shirts, folded with mechanical precision, rested on a shelf above. A few plain sweaters, thick and nondescript, were tucked neatly alongside them.
It was all so... normal.
Almost aggressively normal.
And somehow, that normality made him feel even more adrift. It was as if someone had tried to reconstruct a version of human life from memory, getting the broad strokes right but missing the soul of it.
For a brief second, a pang of homesickness twisted deep in his chest — a longing for the chaotic mess of his room, for his worn-out sneakers kicked into a corner, for the familiar scent of old pizza and cheap detergent clinging stubbornly to everything.
He turned instinctively toward the door of his temporary sanctuary, a sharp, almost primal urge flaring up within him.
The world outside this room was alien, uncertain, and dangerous. The least he could do was make sure he had control over this one small space.
Crossing the room in a few swift strides, he checked the door, his fingers fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar locking mechanism until he heard the satisfying click of the bolt sliding firmly into place.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
Only then, with the door locked and the silence wrapping around him like a fragile cocoon, did he allow himself to strip away the remnants of the day.
The worn denim clung stubbornly to his skin, heavy with sweat and dust, while the oversized hoodie felt like it carried the weight of everything he had endured — the fear, the confusion, the bone-deep exhaustion.
He peeled them off slowly, as if shedding a second skin, and let the bundle of clothing fall unceremoniously onto the floor.
The sudden bareness made him feel oddly exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn't expected.
Without thinking further, he headed toward the small, adjoining bathroom, drawn by the instinctive need for water, for cleanliness, for some tangible marker of a fresh start.
The bathroom was compact but thoughtfully designed, its functionality clear in every neatly arranged fixture.
A shower stall, enclosed by frosted glass, took up one corner. A small white sink, unblemished and gleaming under the sterile overhead light, sat beneath a wide mirror that seemed to watch him with silent judgment.
And tucked neatly into the farthest corner, a simple toilet completed the modest layout.
He stepped into the shower stall without ceremony, his bare feet flinching slightly against the shock of the cool tiles.
Reaching for the faucet, he turned it sharply, setting it to the coldest possible setting without a second thought.
A sharp hiss of air preceded the onslaught of freezing water that burst from the showerhead, hammering down onto his skin like icy needles.
He gasped involuntarily, the shock of it stealing the breath from his lungs, but he didn't move away.
Instead, he sank down onto the small, built-in seat tucked into the corner, curling slightly into himself as the frigid water poured over him.
The cold crept into his muscles, into his bones, driving out the lingering tension with its relentless chill.
And strangely, it helped.
The numbing sensation dulled the frantic swirl of thoughts in his mind, muffled the ache of muscles strained beyond endurance, quieted the residual hum of fear that had burrowed deep inside him.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back until it rested against the smooth, chill tile of the wall.
The rhythmic drumming of water against tile filled the small space, a steady, hypnotic cadence that seemed to slow time itself.
His breathing grew slower, deeper, syncing unconsciously to the rhythm of the falling water.
The exhaustion he had been fighting for what felt like endless hours finally caught up with him, crashing over him in a heavy, irresistible wave.
Images flickered at the edges of his mind — Joe's cold, calculating eyes; the horrific images from the Red Desert video; the whispered threats and unimaginable powers lurking just beyond his understanding.
But they were distant now, muted by the cold, by the sheer force of his body's need for rest.
Sawyer drifted, his consciousness slipping away by inches.
And eventually, sleep claimed him where he sat — a deep, dreamless surrender — cocooned by the hiss of the shower and the protective embrace of merciful oblivion.
For now, at least, the bewildering and terrifying reality beyond the locked door could wait.
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Note: The Department of Extranormal Affairs would like to remind all personnel that while telepathy can be a useful tool, it is considered impolite to reveal such abilities during moments of extreme emotional distress. Furthermore, the unauthorized fitting of miniature diving suits on bioluminescent sharks is strictly prohibited. Please refer to memo 3.14 for further clarification on acceptable marine life modifications.