Slowly, Azriel dragged his feet forward, his vacant eyes staring ahead, the Desert Eagle clutched weakly in his hand. Holes pierced his body, a trail of blood marking every step.
Everything around him was black and white.
He felt nothing. Saw no color. The world was simply cold, muted, and neutral. Yet with each step, those eyes of his grew clearer, more focused, as if color were fighting its way back into them.
He walked on—tree by tree—until at last he stopped before a single trunk. Beyond it stretched nothing but a wasteland of wet earth, all the trees ahead obliterated into nothingness.
He stood there, blinking, his sight sharpening further until, suddenly, the colors returned.
Though the colors had returned, Azriel still felt as if he wasn't entirely in this world, as if he wasn't part of reality. It was a strange, derealizing sensation.
