The immortal doesn't stop. The knife rises. Falls. Rises again.

I step back. There's nothing I can do for him.

Then I look up.

The sky is grey. The mist is low. But above it — something moves.

At first, I think it's a mountain. A black peak rising above the clouds.

But mountains don't move. And this one does — slowly, deliberately, like a leg shifting its weight.

"That's not a mountain," I say.

"No," Don Juan says. "It's not."

I look higher.

The mountain is just his leg. His body rises above the clouds, lost in the grey. Metallic. Smooth. Like something poured from liquid metal and left to cool. No seams. No joints. Just a shape.

I can't see his face. Only the outline — shoulders, arms, the suggestion of a head far above.

He's so tall the clouds pass through him. Or he passes through them.

"Don't look at it," Don Juan says.

"Why?"

"Because things that big don't look at you by accident. If it's watching, it's waiting."

I lower my eyes. But I can still feel it — cold, distant, patient.

The immortal doesn't look up. He just keeps cutting.

"He doesn't see it," I say.

"Maybe he's beyond seeing. Or maybe it's been there so long he forgot it."

"How long is 'so long'?"

Don Juan doesn't answer.

The knife rises. Falls.

Above us, the metal giant hangs in the sky.

Watching.