The pit wasn't deep.
It was infinite.
Harrison felt it the instant his boots left the crumbling edge: the cold rush of air that wasn't air, the absence of up or down, the sound of his own heartbeat slowing to a crawl.
Or speeding up.
He couldn't tell anymore.
For a moment, he was falling.
For another, he was rising.
And then he was standing—
In the woods outside Arkham.
It was dusk.
The air smelled of pine and rain-soaked earth.
And in the clearing ahead, two boys were playing.
Harrison felt his throat tighten.
Ethan.
His younger self laughed as they chased each other through the trees, sticks in hand like wooden swords.
But the laughter curdled as a shadow passed over the clearing.
Harrison's sixth sense screamed.
"No," he whispered.
Black hands erupted from the ground, snaring Ethan's legs.
The boy screamed, thrashing as the hands pulled him down into the soil.
Harrison's younger self froze, his stick dropping to the dirt.
Above them, a faceless figure in golden robes watched silently.
"Help him!" Harrison shouted.
But his younger self didn't move.
"You never did save him," Nyarlathotep whispered.
Harrison spun around.
The Black Pharaoh stood inches away, golden mask gleaming in the half-light.
"You just watched," the god said. "And when it was over, you ran."
"I was a kid," Harrison growled.
"You still are."
The mask melted away, revealing a swirling void of mouths and eyes.
"And you've been running ever since."
Harrison blinked—
And now he was in his office in Boston.
The phone on the desk rang incessantly.
The blinds were shut tight, blocking out a sunlight that felt wrong somehow—too heavy, too warm.
He reached for the phone.
"Hello, Prophet," Clara's voice said on the other end.
"I'm not your Prophet," Harrison hissed.
"You're the only one left," she said.
The walls began to bleed.
Harrison backed away as the office warped and twisted. The floor stretched into a spiral, pulling him downward.
He fell—
And landed in Arkham's town square.
But it wasn't Arkham.
Not really.
The buildings leaned at impossible angles, their windows staring like eyes. The cobblestones crawled beneath his boots, rippling like flesh.
The Black Choir stood in a circle around him, their robes empty, their faces featureless.
"PROPHET," they chanted. "PROPHET. PROPHET."
Their voices vibrated inside his skull.
Evelyn appeared across the square, her gray eyes wide.
"You're losing yourself!" she shouted.
"I know!" Harrison cried back.
But his body wouldn't move.
Golden vines coiled around his arms and legs, tightening with each heartbeat.
"Let me go!" he screamed.
"Why?" Nyarlathotep's voice echoed from everywhere at once.
"You've fought long enough, Prophet. Let it end. Let me in."
A hundred golden masks appeared in the fog.
Each whispered in a different voice.
Ethan.
Clara.
His own.
"You were born for this."
Harrison raised the dagger.
Its blue runes sputtered weakly, flickering like a dying star.
He turned the blade toward his chest.
"Not yours," he muttered.
But the dagger melted in his hand.
It became a black tendril, coiling up his arm.
"You already are mine," the voices said.
Suddenly Harrison was standing in a mirror.
His reflection smiled back at him.
Golden sigils covered its chest and face, glowing faintly.
Its blue eyes were gone—replaced by two black voids swirling with teeth.
"Say it," his reflection whispered.
"You're mine. You've always been mine."
Harrison shook his head violently.
"No."
The reflection raised its hand.
"You'll be happier this way."
The dagger reformed in Harrison's palm.
"Maybe," he whispered. "But I'm not done fighting."
He swung the blade.
The mirror shattered.
Harrison slammed back into his body.
He lay gasping on the cold stone floor, sweat dripping from his face.
The pit was gone.
The fog was gone.
But the golden sigils still pulsed faintly on his chest.
And deep in his mind, Nyarlathotep laughed.
"You can't kill me, child. I live in you now."
A small hand touched his shoulder.
Harrison flinched—
And looked up into Clara's wide eyes.
"Is it over?" she asked, her voice small and scared.
Harrison wasn't sure how to answer.
He reached for her hand.
The fog began creeping back.
And in the distance, the sound of bells.