Marseille Harbor Labyrinth Mystery

Came Back From Hell

The bitter taste of iron and chalk dust filled his throat, the final sensation before the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling of the rented room exploded. Jean Valéry slumped, the empty syringe he had used for the fatal heroin dose slipping from his vein, landing with a small click on the dirty wooden floor. Death felt like a thick, warm blanket; a peaceful acceptance of the failure of twenty-eight years spent as a small-time criminal in Marseille.

However, that peace lasted only sixty seconds.

As his heart stopped, as his brain began shutting down systems, an unnatural coldness—not temperature, but matter—injected itself into his primary vein. It was a black, viscous fluid, cold as the deep seabed that had never felt the sun. The fluid wasn't blood, but memory: fragmented recollections of a sunken civilization, Atlantis, and an ancient Alchemist who died from hubris.

Every cell in Jean’s body screamed as it was forced back to life. His bones felt as if they were steeped in acid, and his lungs were yanked back from the void by a brutal, alien will.

Arise. The command boomed through the remnants of his consciousness. Salt. You are Salt.

Jean opened his eyes. He was no longer in the squalid room. He lay on a narrow cot, surrounded by the pungent odor of antiseptic and muffled whispers. The pale white light of a worn hospital fluorescent fixture pained his eyes, and the throbbing in his head felt like a sledgehammer.

“Doctor! Doctor, his heart rate is back!”

The voice belonged to a panicked young nurse. Jean tried to move, but his arms were loosely restrained to the sides of the bed. The pain was intense, yet beneath it was an extraordinary new energy, pulsing like a second heart made of viscous brine.

“Damn it,” hissed a man nearby. It was Doctor Moreau, a veteran accustomed to handling overdoses in the northern district. “His heart rate is spiking, two twenty. He should have been dead half an hour ago. What did you give him?”

“Only standard adrenaline, Doc. We didn’t even have time to place a new line. He was already… cold.”

Jean struggled against the restraints. He didn’t know why, but this environment—the dry air, the sterile rubber floor, the smell of disinfectant—made him nauseous. It felt impure, unnatural. An instinctual urge dominated his brain: Find water. Find Salt.

“Easy, kid. You just came back from hell,” Doctor Moreau said, approaching with a penlight. He shone the light into Jean’s eyes.

The light felt like acid splashed into them. Jean growled, a strange sound, deeper and hoarser than his usual voice.

“Don’t touch me!” Jean yelled, his voice cracking.

“He’s aggressive! Nurse, call Security! And just call the police. We know he’s Valéry. There’s a warrant out for him on that petty charge down at the Vieux-Port.”

The young nurse ran out. Doctor Moreau stepped back, staring at Jean with a mixture of revulsion and awe.

“Listen, Jean. We saved your life. You owe us at least a little calm.”

Saved? Jean didn't feel saved. He felt refilled, resurrected as a vessel for something alien and ancient. Alien memories flashed: crystal coral, silent storms under the sea, and a voice denouncing him, “You destroyed everything with your greed!”

“I need water,” Jean said, his original voice returning, yet overlaid with a layer of raspiness.

“Of course, we’ll get you on IV fluids. You’re severely dehydrated,” Moreau replied, reaching for the installed IV line.

The moment Moreau touched the IV bag, Jean felt a repugnant sensation. The fluid was hollow. Just water, no life, no minerals. It was an insult to his new self.

“Don’t give me that,” Jean said, his eyes widening.

“Don’t be stupid. You need this to survive—”

With a sudden and absurd burst of strength, Jean tore the loose restraints from his wrists. His skin was red and chafed, but he felt no physical pain; his pain was now chemical, the pain of impurity.

Jean launched himself off the bed. His body was tall and thin, but his muscles now felt dense, like brine-soaked stone. He inhaled the air in the room. Filthy. Trapped city air. He needed the sea.

Doctor Moreau screamed, “Security! Now! Patient is agitated!”

Jean ignored him. He looked at the heart monitor beside the bed. The flickering green screen showed a rhythm too fast, too strong. The monitor was a symbol of humanity’s futile attempt to control him.

With a surprisingly swift movement, Jean grabbed the monitor.

“You won’t measure me again,” he whispered to the machine, before ripping the wires and the monitor from the wall with a single brutal tug. The device slammed onto the floor, scattering plastic debris.

Moreau grabbed the phone, his face sheet white. “This isn’t the Jean Valéry we know. This… this isn’t human.”

Jean, standing amid the broken glass and cables, felt a profound imbalance. His new brain—or rather, the Alchemist’s memory—demanded salt, electrolytes, dissolved minerals. He had to return to his element.

“Get out of the way,” Jean commanded Moreau.

Moreau raised his hands. “Hell, I’ll get out of the way. Go. But you’ll die without treatment, kid.”

“I’ve already died once,” Jean replied, stepping past the door into the dimly lit hallway.

His steps were quick, without faltering, despite the weakness he should have felt after the overdose. He ran through an emergency exit that reeked of cigarette smoke and garbage. Every step away from the sterile hospital reduced the excruciating headache.

He found himself in a dark back alley, illuminated only by a flickering streetlamp. The first aromas to greet him were exhaust fumes, old sweat, and organic waste. Disgusting smells, but beneath them all was a deeper, older aroma: the sea.

His instinct drove him southward, toward the harbor.

As he ran, he touched his forehead, wiping away the cold sweat that slicked his skin. He lifted his fingers to his mouth—the primal urge was irresistible. He had to know.

Jean licked his own sweat.

The bitter, pure, and potent taste of salt hit his tongue. It wasn’t just salt. It was primal salt. The same salt that filled the sunken sea thousands of years ago.

The sensation was soothing, and at the same time, repulsive. He felt his old self, Jean Valéry, gone now, replaced by a fragmented entity bound to the brine.

He had to leave. Now.

Jean ran, leaving the dingy hospital behind him. The taste of salt on his lips felt like a newly etched primal oath. He had to find the source: the seawater of Marseille.

He ripped the remaining heart monitor residue still wrapped around his wrist. He tasted his own sweat—the taste of primal salt, so clear and sharp.

Snap.