The skyquake didn’t stop — it pivoted.
One moment, the air shimmered gold; the next, it tore itself open along a razor-thin seam, stretching from Point Dume all the way to the Pacific Coast Highway.
A glowing line.
A fault in the atmosphere.
And then — impossibly — Malibu split.
Not with an earthquake.
But with a lightquake.
A division of perception, like two realities peeling away from each other.
On one side:
the Malibu everyone names in wistful Instagram captions — blue skies, surfboards, white Teslas, cold-pressed serenity.
On the other:
a Malibu that felt older than the hills.
Smoky.
Scarred.
Burnt-black with memory.
The Malibu of fires that never fully died, of secrets buried beneath celebrity mansions and forgotten canyons.
My lover grabbed my arm.
“Circle Four,” he whispered.
“They’re forcing the split.”
The birds chose instantly — half spiraled into the bright world, half dove into the smoky shadow one. A cosmic coin toss.
Kellerman stared at the widening divide.
“This isn’t natural,” he muttered. “This is… orchestrated.”
THE MESSAGE FROM FLORIDA
My phone buzzed.
A number I didn’t recognize — area code 561.
Palm Beach.
I answered.
Static crackled.
A low voice came through, familiar in a way that made me question whether Malibu had slipped into satire.
“Listen,” the voice said, “don’t panic. Or panic a little. Either way, you’re not supposed to see what you’re seeing out there.”
I blinked.
“Who is this?”
A brief pause.
Then:
“Let’s call me a… former president of certain beach properties.”
The wind roared over the cliffs.
My lover’s eyebrows shot up.
“You’re calling from Mar-a-Lago?” I asked, incredulous.
Another pause.
Then a dramatic exhale.
“I didn’t say that. But let’s just say the air conditioning here is tremendous.”
I tried to speak, but he cut me off:
“You’re in the middle of something very big. Bigger than any election. Bigger than any primary. Much bigger than my old place on Fifth Avenue, and trust me, that was big. They’re opening circles out there. You’re in Circle Three, right?”
I swallowed hard.
“How do you know about that?”
A soft chuckle.
“Oh, I’ve had my meetings. Strange meetings. Meetings you wouldn’t believe. Circles, tunnels, birds that look like they know too much… They told me to stay out of Malibu. Which of course made me very interested in Malibu.”
Kellerman mouthed “hang up!”
But I couldn’t.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Nothing! I want nothing! I’m just telling you — when Malibu splits, something else opens. You’re going to see a door. Don’t go through the first one. It’s a trap. A big trap. The biggest trap.”
My lover shouted through the wind:
“What door?!”
The voice hesitated — unusual, uncertain.
“Listen… if you see a room that feels like the ones in Mar-a-Lago but underwater, DON’T—”
The line cut.
Static swallowed the rest.
THE MALIBU DIVIDE WIDENS
The ground beneath us moaned — a low, seismic grief.
The golden fault line widened until it became a chasm of pure light, splitting Zuma Beach in half.
On one side:
the bright Malibu — shimmering, beautiful, unreal.
On the other:
The shadow Malibu — smoky, trembling, remembering every wildfire that ever scorched its hills.
A third vibration rolled through the canyon.
We stumbled.
The ocean split next.
A fissure of light slicing the waves in two, revealing for an instant something beneath:
a submerged corridor, metallic and ancient, lit by blue rings.
Kellerman gasped.
“That’s it. That’s Circle Four’s entrance.”
But before we could move toward it—
A figure appeared on the bright side of Malibu.
Standing on the sand.
Perfectly still.
Watching us.
He wore a beautifully cut Brioni suit, although no sane person would wear a suit to the beach.
His bright red silk tie flapped dramatically in the sea breeze.
Even from across the divide, even in silhouette —
I recognized the posture.
My lover whispered:
“That’s impossible.”
Kellerman whispered:
“No it isn’t.”
Donald J. Trump raised his hand…
and pointed directly at us.
The sky above the bright side pulsed — hard, blinding, white.
And the shadow side roared back with its own flare — red, smoky, violent.
Malibu wasn’t just splitting.
It was a choice.
And it wanted us to choose too.
My lover gripped my hand.
Kellerman, wide-eyed, said:
“We have ten seconds. Pick a side.”
Trump took a step toward the divide.
The underwater corridor beneath the ocean glowed brighter.
And somewhere between Mar-a-Lago’s warning and Malibu’s fracture—
Circle Four opened.