He dreamed of drowning in blood.
It wasn't metaphorical. He felt it—the nauseating warmth of it clinging to his skin like a fever, the crushing weight pressing down on his chest until his ribs threatened to crack. His lungs filled with the viscous fluid, every desperate breath a betrayal that sent copper-tinged liquid cascading down his throat. The metallic taste coated his tongue, bitter and overwhelming, while thick clots slithered between his teeth like living things. His body regenerated faster than it could die, but in the dream, it didn't matter—there was no ground beneath his feet, no ceiling above his head, no direction to orient himself. Just the suffocating red ocean, and the unbearable weight of every version of himself that had ever died dragging him deeper into the abyss.
Despite somehow being aware he was drowning, the terrifying thought came to his mind unbidden, crystallizing through the haze of panic.
