Blake, Juba, Feelgood, and a few others enter the cave.

Stray flames flare, catching twigs, briefly lighting the

rough stone interior.

Feelgood approaches the open cylinder pod.

Budya is close behind.

Marwen lies slumped on the cave floor.

Blake waves a hand through the empty space between the two

halves of the cylinder.

There’s nothing visible holding them apart.

Feelgood kneels and lifts Marwen’s head onto his knee.

Blake steps back, examining the pod’s interior — glowing from

a source he can’t place.

No wires. No heat. No logic.

Voices echo softly.

Blake looks over.

Feelgood is speaking — but so is Marwen, lips slack, barely

breathing.

Budya leans in at Feelgood’s gesture, ear near Marwen’s

mouth.

She responds in the same language.

The two carry on a low, eerie exchange for a few tense

minutes.

Then silence.

Feelgood closes Marwen’s eyes.

Marwen’s head lolls.

50.

A final rasp escapes his throat.

They lower him gently to the floor.

Budya retrieves a carved stone, hands it to Feelgood.

He presses his fingers into its worn grooves.

Suddenly, Sarah steps into the cave like a storm warning.

Danny, arm in a sling, rushes in behind her, straight to

Juba.

The two stare into the cylinder, transfixed.

He launches into fast, excited chatter with Juba.

Sarah moves to Blake’s side.

They climb into the van as wind tears at their coats.

Rain pelts sideways.

Blake glances back once.

Then they’re gone, swallowed into the blackening storm.

The rain lets up just as they arrive.

Across the bay, between two jagged crags, Stinkwood Island

looms — a weather-beaten lighthouse clinging to its seaward

side like it’s avoiding eye contact.

Sarah steers the van into a crooked old shed.

Its doors hang off their hinges.

Inside, it’s dry.

Something darts past the open door.

53.

Danny YELPS — then laughs when he sees it’s DRUMMER,

Fleabag's scruffy dog.

Sarah presses a finger to her lips, then points — go.

Danny leads them around the side of the shed.

A weed-choked trail winds down the slope toward a tunnel

mouth.

Danny flicks on a torch.

The passage is narrow, just wide enough for single file.

At the far end, they ascend another slope — steps, worn but

holding.

A faded door, paint peeling.

Blake shoulders it a few times.

It gives with a groan revealing narrow spiral steps

disappearing upward into shadow.

They climb.

At the top: a broad landing.

Two facing rooms, old, solid.

Blake checks the first — a desk, handmade.

The second — a sheet covers a feather mattress on a wooden

bed.

He whips it off, dust flies.

Drummer hops up, circles, plants himself in the center.

Danny slumps down next to him, half-asleep on contact.

54.

Blake reappears holding an oil lamp.

He rummages through the desk drawers — finds matches, a pipe,

old photos.

He strikes one.

The lamp flares to life, casting shadows.

Sarah lies down beside Danny.

Blake steps out to the landing, holding the lamp aloft.

After a while, Sarah joins him.

A beat.

Chemistry.

Blake climbs the steel ladder, pushes open the trapdoor.

He helps Sarah through.

They enter a domed vault built from a kaleidoscope of

salvaged glass.

The room glows with moonlight refracted through an intricate

hexagonal mosaic.

A leather armchair sits facing the sea.

Blake drops into it.

55.

The moon hits the dome just right — the light blooms around

them, casting spectral patterns over the stone.

Blake gazes out.

He spots the dark swirl of Mad Water Delta, a half mile off,

churning ominously.

Then — a SHADOW.

The moon disappears behind hurricane clouds.

Wind increases, the glass dome WHINES under the pressure.

Blake douses the lamp.

Rain patters, rhythmic.

Sarah places a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t speak.

She turns and climbs quietly back down the ladder.