Only when I reach the mangled, twisted metal of the machine do I stop. The bathysphere sits, awash in a strangely golden light, drawing me to its existence, encouraging me to step in. I find that I don't. The silence left in my wake is unsettling. Again, the sound of water dripping, leaking, is steady in the background; a part of me wonders how structurally sound this city is. I could, perhaps, step into the bathysphere with little effort. I could trust the fact that it functions properly, in spite of how all elevators prove to be somewhat of a trap, enclosing a man in a small space, little room for escape. But I find myself turning to face the silence, seating myself on the stair leading up to the bathysphere. Waiting.

When I catch a flicker of movement in the distance, I rise to my feet. After so many years of being the one who chases, I find myself waiting for the opposite, today.

Or perhaps it's always been a process. More and more of the crazed seek me out with each passing day. Maybe I invite that kind of behavior.

"Are you coming?"