The masked enter the temple. They live in the liminal space between portrait and intention, and as they float the blackness hums. A flash sparks beneath their eyelids: white, then violet. It gives way to a forest, an invalid crouched on a salt flat, and a void. They train their minds through focus, and the ultraviolet melts their skin. And then they're off. Until they find themselves in the cave, where it moans. They open their eyes, walk to the kitchen, and ravage last night's drumstick.