[The sun is setting. Subtle purple hues across amber horizon, low-light blinding in its Autumn intensity, the trees light up aglow. Against the backdrop, a figure, dark and tall; growing tall, up up up until the sun is eclipsed entire. It grows, hulked-out shoulders, bones twisting and joints cracking. It howls, in the distance, agony ringing out like a siren, like a scream.

A blink, it's gone. The sun is lower still. A hand reaches out for Dom's shoulder, each long, spindling and taloned finger curling one by one. At his ear, a wet, ragged breath, each sounding more pained than the last. It wheezes thick, like a drowning man. It snarls Domingos, over and over. When Dom finally turns, he is alone.

When he turns again, the sun is almost gone. The air is still. The trees do not move. The land does not breathe. Behind him, breaking through the stillness:]

Where I'm from, if you die in Tel'aran'rhiod, your soul cannot return to the waking world. The body dies without it.

[Familiar, yes? When he turns, there is no one there. Behind him, again:] Few people know how to move through Tel'aran'rhiod. But you, [and it's closer again, back of his neck. A whisper:] You did it just fine, didn't you Domingos Choi?