The mechanical, wheezing drone of the cheap exhaust fan filled the tiny space.
Ethan sat on the closed lid of the toilet in the dark.
He hadn't taken his wool coat off. He hadn't unlaced his shoes. He just sat there.
His phone cast a harsh, blue glow over his face.
His right thumb swiped upward on the glass screen. A picture slid past. A block of text. A video on mute. He didn't read any of it. He just kept swiping. The repetitive friction of his fingerprint against the glass was the only thing grounding him.
He swiped again.
The air in the bathroom changed.
The lingering scent of his roommate's artificial pine body wash vanished. It was replaced by something sharp and suffocating.
Ethan stopped swiping. He lowered his phone.
It smelled like stagnant river mud. It smelled like oxidized copper and rotting weeds.
A loud, pressurized popping sound cracked through the room. It sounded like a massive vacuum seal breaking directly over the bathtub.
Air rushed inward.
A heavy, wet mass slammed into the frosted glass of the shower door.
The glass rattled violently in its aluminum track.
Ethan shoved himself backward. His spine hit the toilet tank. The porcelain let out a high, scraping squeak.
Something rolled off the edge of the bathtub. It hit the floor between the sink pedestal and the toilet bowl with a sickening, wet thud.
Water splashed across Ethan's shoes.
He dropped his phone. It landed face-up on the gray Target bathmat.
A man was wedged into the narrow gap next to the sink.
He was completely drenched. Brown, silty water poured off his clothes, pooling rapidly on the linoleum.
He was coughing. It was a horrible, hacking sound. He rolled onto his side, gagging, and spat a mouthful of dark river water onto the baseboards.
Ethan pressed his shoulders harder against the toilet tank. He dug his nails into the denim of his thighs.
The man was wearing layers of ruined, heavy fabric. White cotton soaked to transparency. A pale blue outer robe smeared with thick black mud. A wide, stiff belt sat askew around his ribs.
The man pushed himself up onto his elbows. He was clutching the top of his head with one hand, holding onto something that wasn't there. His hair was plastered to his skull, tied up in a tight, soaked knot.
Ethan stared at the man's hand.
He dragged his palm aggressively against his own knee. The rough denim burned his skin.
He didn't speak. He just watched the muddy water soak into his bathmat.
The man stopped coughing. He took a ragged, wet breath.
He tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling. He looked at the plastic vent of the exhaust fan.
Then he looked at Ethan.
The man's face was sharp, pale, and furious. Water dripped from his chin.
He opened his mouth and shouted.
The words were deafening in the tiled room. The language was Korean, but the cadence was harsh. The vowels were completely wrong.
"Where is the crossing?" The man yelled. His voice scraped against his ruined throat. "The vanguard! Who blocks the path?"
Ethan swallowed. His throat clicked.
"What," Ethan said. He spoke in casual, broken Korean. His voice was completely flat. "Who are you."
The man scrambled to get his feet under him. He kept slipping on the wet linoleum. He braced his forearm against the side of the bathtub.
"You dare sit while addressed?" The man snapped. He pointed a trembling, mud-stained finger at Ethan.
Ethan looked at the finger. He looked back at the man's face.
"Did you come through the ceiling?" Ethan asked. He pointed vaguely upward. There was no window. There was no hole.
The man didn't look up. He was staring at the toilet Ethan was sitting on. The anger in his face shifted into deep, offended disgust.
He gestured wildly at the porcelain bowl.
"You sit upon a white basin," the man said. He looked around the cramped, five-by-eight bathroom. "In a closet. With no ventilation for the foul air. Are you being punished?"
Ethan slowly lifted his hands off his knees.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He pushed until he saw bursts of dull yellow light.
"I'm hallucinating," Ethan whispered in English. "I'm actually having a stroke."
He dropped his hands. The man was still there. He was still dripping brown water.
Ethan leaned forward. He reached down to pick up his phone from the damp bathmat.
"I'm calling the super," Ethan said, switching back to his clumsy Korean. He didn't look at the man. "I'm calling building management."
The man lunged.
His wet sleeve whipped through the air. He swatted Ethan's hand away.
The heavy silk slapped against Ethan's wrist. It was freezing cold. It felt like wet cement.
The phone flew out of Ethan's grip. It skittered across the tile and hit the base of the wall.
Ethan pulled his hand back. He grabbed his own wrist. The skin where the wet fabric had hit him was stinging.
"Do not summon your magistrate with that glowing tablet," the man commanded. He stood up fully.
He tried to square his shoulders. He tried to look dignified.
The layers of soaked fabric weighed him down. He took a step toward Ethan.
His traditional, cloth-wrapped shoe stepped directly onto the edge of the gray bathmat.
The rubber backing of the mat had lost its grip months ago.
The mat slid across the wet linoleum.
The man's leading foot shot forward. His balance collapsed instantly.
He flailed his arms. His mouth opened in a silent gasp.
He twisted his body and grabbed blindly for the edge of the sink pedestal to catch himself.
His elbow slammed into the porcelain edge.
His hand knocked into the plastic toothbrush holder sitting by the faucet.
The holder tipped over.
It hit the tile with a loud, sharp crack.
Toothbrushes scattered. A tube of Crest toothpaste spun wildly across the wet floor, hitting the man's knee.
The man slumped against the sink. He was breathing heavily. His chest heaved under the ruined robes.
Ethan didn't move. He sat on the toilet lid and stared at the mess.
The man slowly pushed himself off the sink.
He held his right hand up.
He had scraped his knuckles against the underside of the porcelain basin.
A bright, thick bead of red blood swelled over the split skin.
It wasn't a hallucination. Hallucinations didn't bleed. Hallucinations didn't knock over plastic cups.
The blood dripped. It hit the white tile. It mixed with the brown river water.
The smell of the mud and the copper completely overpowered the cheap pine body wash. It smelled like a war that had happened four hundred years ago. It smelled like drowning.
The man ignored his bleeding hand.
He turned his head. He looked at the layout of the bathroom. He looked at the mirror hanging over the sink. He looked at the bathtub drain.
His jaw tightened.
"The water flows directly into a blind wall," the man said. His voice was lower now. It was laced with absolute contempt.
He looked down at Ethan.
"The mirror reflects the waste basin," the man continued. He pointed at the toilet. "The stagnant air is trapped. The earth energy is suffocating beneath these fake stone squares."
Ethan looked at the scattered toothbrushes on the floor.
He looked at his toothpaste tube sitting in a puddle of muddy water.
"No wonder your spirit is rotting," the man said.
Ethan felt a dull, hollow ache settle into the back of his neck. He was so tired his teeth hurt.
He looked up at the man.
"Don't touch my stuff," Ethan said.
The man just stared at him.
The exhaust fan kept wheezing above them.
A heavy drop of river water fell from the hem of the man's robe.
It hit the cheap linoleum floor with a wet, heavy smack.