PREVIEWS

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First came a flash—fierce, blinding, gone before he could blink. It struck the dark monitor before him, a fleeting reflection that carved the room into shards of light and shadow. He turned. Behind him, the air buckled.

A primordial black hole had formed at the room’s center, its heart a perfect, crushing point of darkness that expanded outward, swallowing everything in its orbit. Overhead lights stretched and thinned, ribbons of illumination pulled taut. Papers lifted, dust drifted, a coffee mug slid in a slow, helpless arc as the floor tilted beneath him.  The distortion ballooned, folding the room in on itself. 

He forced himself upright, his movements slipping out of sync with his own intent. The room warped around the black hole, space sagging toward its center. Time fractured in stuttering flashes. He saw himself die twice, survive once, keep moving with his shadow racing beside him in broken frames.

The pull intensified, bending him into the black heart. Sound fractured and died; darkness swallowed him whole. For one suspended instant, reality collapsed around him.

Then, something immense surged into the black hole. A faint, impossible glow quivered along its rim, growing as the darkness stretched to contain it. The void swelled, drawing the room’s fragments inward in a rising, shuddering pulse. At its peak, it inhaled everything around it before collapsing violently, dissolving entirely. 

Silence settled, charged and heavy, leaving behind only the trace of something beyond comprehension it its wake as Styles plunged through a tear swallowed by the dark while unconscious. For a moment, there was nothing, then the ocean took him, brutal and unyielding, stealing his breath with each turn. Just as his strength failed, one gracious wave rose beneath him, and carried him toward the shore. 

He broke the surface with a gasp that tore through the silence, coughing and sputtering water as he fought for air. The storm inside him finally went still. Brilliance faded to gold across his skin, spilling like molten light. The coarse sand beneath him warmed slowly under his weight. His breaths returned in staggered pulls, half gasp, half relief. 

He closed his eyes, letting his body speak its own language. It felt heavier than the world he’d left behind. He remained still, letting memories sift through the fog of collapse. He remembered the roar—the distortion—the feeling of everything folding inward. He remembered the certainty that it was over. Yet here he was, pinned between quiet and surf, alive.

A few minutes later, he hauled himself upright, muscles protesting with every movement. The horizon shimmered in front, the ocean stretched endlessly into the distance as sunlight played on the water’s skin. He looked at his hands and observed faint arcs of residual light fading from his fingertips and he found himself wondering why he glowed. A wave rolled in and touched his feet. It was cool, grounding. He let it wash over his feet, and felt the pull of the retreating tide tug gently at his balance. Thoughts came like fragments of glass. Was it over? Had he made it through or merely sideways? Each question dissolved leaving only a profound fatigue wrapped in quiet wonder.

He drew in a slow breath, tasting salt and sunlight. His eyes drifted closed. The chaos that had chased him across worlds faded to nothing. He sat there, unmoving,  while the air settled around him, steadied his senses.  The world might collapse again. For now, it didn’t matter. He was here. Whole enough. Still enough, ready to collect his thoughts.