Elias reached for a glass of water, but his hand stopped mid-air. In the reflection of the dark window, he didn't see himself. He saw a version of Elias whose eyes were just a shade too wide, whose smile was just a fraction too sharp. It was the "origin story of pain" he had spent a lifetime suppressing, now clawing its way to the surface.

As Elias sat at his desk, staring at the folder Vane had left behind, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen, losing their logical sequence. He felt a strange aura radiating from the paper—a weight that suggested the true conflict wasn't waiting for him in some remote alleyway, but was already vibrating beneath his skin.

He remembered Vane’s voice, calm and melodic. "We all think we're the heroes of our own stories, Elias. But have you ever wondered why you’re so good at cleaning up the dark? It’s because you recognize the shape of it. It’s familiar, isn't it?".