' ' see , the rain is nice but gee . . . i don ' t really like getting wet . ' '

The last thing Nikita Lytkin felt before slipping into the abyss was the cold bite of steel and the faint, rhythmic droning of fluorescent lights. In his final act of defiance, he left behind the confines of his cell, surrendering to the darkness that lay beyond. What awaited him, however, was far from the emptiness he had imagined.

Nikita woke—or rather, found himself unbound—in a realm that defied logic, resembling a fever dream from a Jack Stauber video. The sky above was a swirling, neon canvas of melting colors, streaked with abstract forms that pulsated to an erratic, whimsical rhythm. Below, the ground was a patchwork of shifting patterns and textures—like a giant, animated quilt made of misaligned pixels and wobbly, oversized tiles.

He drifted, unsure of his footing or even if he had feet, as an otherworldly figure floated towards him. This creature was a grotesque hybrid of a marionette and an old-fashioned television. Its head flickered with fractured images and scrambled broadcasts, while its limbs seemed to twist and elongate in a strange, fluid motion.

"Welcome to the Dream-Cycle, Nikita," the figure announced, its voice a collage of warbling static and disjointed melodies. "Not quite what you had in mind, I assume?"

Nikita tried to respond, but his voice emerged as a series of dissonant echoes that joined the ambient cacophony. The creature's eyes—if they could be called that—flashed with a staccato rhythm, adding to the surreal atmosphere.

"What is this place?" Nikita managed to ask, though the words felt tangled in the surrounding noise.

"The Dream-Cycle," the creature explained with a theatrical spin, its form distorting with every motion. "This is where your essence drifts through a chaotic symphony of your inner self. Time and reality are stitched together in a whimsical patchwork here, and every fragment of your mind dances to its own peculiar beat."

The ground beneath him rippled like a living, breathing canvas, shifting from undulating waves of neon pink to splattered splashes of electric blue. As he moved, the landscape transformed, revealing a carnival of distorted delights—a Ferris wheel with seats made of oversized candy, a carousel of rotating, spinning clocks with faces that morphed into comical expressions.

Nikita felt a strange, pulsating rhythm under his feet, the ground vibrating to an erratic beat. He stumbled into a hall of endless mirrors, each one reflecting a different facet of his life—sometimes with a whimsical twist. One mirror showed him as a floating, mechanical bird, another as a spinning top with a face. The reflections warped and twisted, creating a disorienting yet oddly mesmerizing effect.

He continued exploring, discovering a library suspended in mid-air. The books floated like leaves in a breeze, their covers adorned with surreal, shifting images. When he reached out to touch one, it opened to reveal pages filled with fragmented memories—scenes from his life rendered in bizarre, abstract art. The text and images seemed to interact with each other, creating a visual symphony of his past.

As Nikita wandered further, the landscape shifted to a room with walls made of translucent, shimmering threads. These threads pulsed with a soft, hypnotic glow, weaving intricate patterns in the air. The room was filled with floating objects—old typewriters with keys that typed out nonsensical poetry, and spinning, mechanical toys that emitted strange, melodic chimes.

In the center of the room was a giant, clockwork sculpture that spun slowly, its gears and cogs emitting a gentle, rhythmic hum. The sculpture's face was a blend of clock hands and animated eyes, each one moving in sync with the ambient music. Nikita felt an inexplicable pull towards it, as if the sculpture was the heart of this peculiar afterlife.

The figure with the TV head appeared beside him, its static-filled eyes glowing softly. "The Dream-Cycle is a realm of continuous transformation," it said, its voice now a soothing, melodic blend. "Here, you can confront the fragments of your existence in a world where whimsy and surrealism reign supreme."

Nikita sat by the clockwork sculpture, watching as the landscape around him continued to shift and change. The chaotic beauty of the realm began to resonate with him, a strange but comforting reminder that even in the most disordered places, there could be a form of understanding.

The space around him softened into a serene, pastel-hued landscape, where floating orbs of light drifted lazily through the air. The melody had transformed into a gentle, soothing tune, creating a peaceful ambiance that contrasted sharply with the earlier chaos.

As he sat by the lake, watching the bioluminescent orbs and listening to the calming music, Nikita felt an unexpected sense of tranquility. The Perpetual Interlude had been an unpredictable journey—a surreal exploration of his inner self that allowed him to find peace amidst the disorder.

And as the whimsical, dreamlike world of the afterlife continued to swirl around him, Nikita embraced the bizarre beauty of his new existence. In this strange and fantastical realm, he discovered a new form of serenity, finding solace in the ever-shifting patterns and melodies of the Dream-Cycle. Now, all he could do was wait for Artyom.