I don't answer my own question.
I learned a long time ago, bleeding out in the darkest corners of the Deep, that some questions aren't doors.
They are traps.
You step through them, and you never find your way back out.
Whether the Gatekeeper was the only one built like that, or just the only one that failed to hide it—that's the same trap wearing a different face.
I open my eyes.
Let's go.
I push myself up, rolling my shoulders until the joints pop in the stale air. The violent tremors in my legs begin to subside, instantly replaced by the familiar, heavy weight of absolute exhaustion.
I wipe the last trace of vomit from my lips with the back of my torn sleeve and walk back to the group.
Oliver is staring at the floor, pretending he didn't just see me on my hands and knees dry-heaving.
I respect him for that…
