The chasm of light cut Malibu into two trembling halves, and from the bright side — the unreal, lacquered, postcard-polished half — the man in the suit stood motionless as a tide pool statue.
Donald J. Trump didn’t walk toward us.
He glided.
Like the sand wasn’t touching him.
Like he wasn’t entirely committed to gravity.
Mr. Trump's silhouette sharpened as he drew closer — sharp shoulders, a formal suit that defied the beach, and a red tie that fluttered dramatically in the wind like it had been coached.
But his face remained out of reach.
Blurred.
As if Malibu itself refused to render him fully.
Kellerman swallowed loudly.
“Is it… him?”
“Yes,” my lover said quickly, firmly.
“It’s Donald J. Trump.”
Mr. Trump paused at the edge of the light-chasm, the fault line glowing beneath his polished shoes. Behind him, the “bright Malibu” rippled like heat haze — mansions too perfect, waves too symmetrical, skies too blue to be mortal.
“Why is he looking at us?” I asked.
“Because he’s not a person,” he murmured.
“He’s the deal. The Art of the Deal.”
THE SUIT THAT DIDN’T MOVE WITH THE WIND
A gust tore across the beach, sending sand spiraling like gold dust.
It whipped my jacket, rustled his hair, nearly knocked Kellerman over.
But Mr. Trump’s suit didn’t move.
Not a ripple.
As if the fabric existed in a different weather system.
“He’s not real,” Kellerman whispered.
“He’s a construct. A projection. Circle Four uses familiar shapes to lure people in — authority figures, celebrities, past lovers, whatever carries weight.”
I stared at the silhouette.
“So that’s… someone’s memory?”
“No,” my lover said. “That’s everyone’s projection. The amalgamation of all public myths.”
Mr. Trump raised a fist.
The skyquake responded instantly.
The burn line above us glowed hotter, pulsing like a heartbeat synced to his movements.
THE MOUTH THAT DIDN’T SPEAK
Mr Trump’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
Instead, the light spoke.
A beam flickered from the split in the sky, forming three words across the sand at our feet:
ENTER THROUGH AUTHORITY
Kellerman recoiled.
“No. No, no, no. That’s not the door we want. That’s the trap he warned us about.”
Mr. Trump tilted his head slightly, as if offended by our hesitation.
The ocean on the bright side turned unnaturally still — glossy like lacquer, holding its breath.
“Why would Circle Four show us Mr. Trump?” I asked.
My lover answered softly, almost reverently:
“Because power is the most seductive doorway.”
THE MEETING WITHOUT A FACE
Mr. Trump stepped closer, right to the edge of the divide.
And then — the strangest thing:
He stepped onto the chasm.
Not around it.
Not across it.
Onto it.
The beam of light rose to meet his foot like a loyal servant.
Mr. Trump stood suspended above the fault line, illuminated from all angles.
For one instant, the light clarified his face—
—but only as every face at once.
Every leader, every dealmaker, every mogul and magnate whose image had passed through the American consciousness.
A shifting collage of influence.
My lover clutched my hand.
“That’s not a person,” he whispered.
“That’s a symbol wearing a suit.”
Mr. Trump stretched out his hand toward us again, urging us to cross into the bright Malibu — the curated, manicured Malibu, the Malibu of image rather than truth.
“Don’t,” Kellerman warned.
“If we step onto that side, Circle Four will rewrite us into the version it wants.”
“Which is how?” I asked.
“A version that obeys.”
THE FIRST QUESTION
Mr. Trump finally spoke — not aloud, but inside our heads, like an echo dropped from a podium somewhere very far away:
“WHERE DO YOU THINK THE STORY IS GOING?”
My lover gasped.
“That’s it. That’s the test. Circle Four wants us to choose the narrative. Their narrative, or our own.”
Mr. Trump pointed behind him — to the bright half — where everything looked clean, quiet, and pre-approved.
Then he pointed at the shadow side — smoky, chaotic, burning with memory.
Then he pointed at the underwater corridor glowing beneath the ocean — the true entrance.
Three choices.
Three circles.
Three futures.
Mr. Tump stepped back once more, his red tie floating upward even though the wind had stopped.
“Why is he waiting?” I asked.
Kellerman’s voice trembled.
“Because the next move isn’t his.”
My lover squeezed my hand so tightly it hurt.
“It’s ours,” he said.
And as the skyquake roared above us, splitting the heavens wider—
—Donald J. Trump smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Just knowingly.
As if he already knew which path we would take.
As if he’d seen it before.
As if we had already stepped through.