He can feel it crawling up his skin before he even looks.

This dark, murky substance that only he can see, growing from his fingertips and climbing towards his forearm.

It's a sign. It's always a sign.

It spreads across his chest and up his other hand, the two ends connecting near his elbow. He shuts his eyes tight as it envelops his head.

Some part of him knows he no longer holds the ability to breathe, but air continues to somehow travel through his body.

He feels himself sinking into the substance, all coherent thoughts being pulled from his head, only to be replaced with white noise.

He lets his body be pulled under, dragged down into the depths.

He's so used to it. Too used to it.